


Cadenza (2/2)

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-04-15
Updated: 2001-04-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 11:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 58,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Mulder and Scully return to San Francisco to protect a cursed violin virtuoso whose life is endangered by mysteries from the past.





	Cadenza (2/2)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Cadenza by Terma99

When Joshua entered the interview room, Nanette got immediately to her feet. He held her tightly while she shook in his arms. "Joshua, darling, please don't let them take me away."

"Nana...shh, you're not going anywhere. They haven't charged you with anything. I won't let them...shh."

Once she calmed, he was able to get her to come sit with him on a short pea-green vinyl couch at the end of the room. He held her hands.

"Nana. Please listen to me. I've talked to Agent Mulder. We can trust him. He only wants a sample of your handwriting."

She was shaking her head, looking very fragile and scared.

Joshua leaned in close to her so they could speak quietly. Agent Scully had exited the room, leaving them in privacy. "What are you afraid of, Nana? Tell me and I'll make them release you."

"They want you to think I wrote those letters, Joshua. I didn't! I swear it on my soul. I didn't write them."

Joshua touched her arm. "I know you didn't, Nana. The writing test will prove that."

She gripped his hands tightly. "How can they tell? They want to trap me. Like GPU officers, always forcing people to confess. You cannot trust these men, Joshua."

Joshua had assumed this was the true nature of her fear, echoes of her past. But still, he felt somewhat relieved she wasn't resisting due to guilt. "Nana, this is America, not Soviet Russia. You are innocent until proven guilty. They can't keep you here for over 24 hours without charging you with something. You haven't done anything wrong. You are innocent. Take the test and prove it to them so I can take you home."

She smiled through her misery and patted his shoulder. "But you see, Joshua, I am not innocent. I have never been innocent--since the day I came to America."

Joshua felt cold dread creep up on him and he spoke even more softly to her. "What do you mean, Nana?"

"Did I ever tell you, Joshua, that I saw you for the first time a week before I came to work for your grandfather?"

"No."

She patted his hand and started to relate a story to him from 13 years ago.

"When I came here to America I was filled with bitterness. I had very dark feelings in my heart for your grandfather who had done so well for himself in America. When I arrived at the train station, your grandfather had a car waiting to bring me to Berkeley. I met him again for the first time in 50 years sitting in the audience at Zellerbach Hall waiting with a seat for me. I was still wearing the same dress and shoes from three days of traveling. I asked him why he had brought me to the Hall instead of home where I could rest. He told me he wanted me to meet his grandson. I sat and waited for you. The people came in and I saw there was no seat for you. It was then that the lights went down and he leaned in to me and said in Russian, 'He will be holding the violin.'

"I cannot tell you, my darling, how beautiful you were, seventeen years old and so handsome and proud with your instrument. Then you played, with another beautiful young man, a Schumann sonata for violin and piano. All the coldness in my heart melted away as you played for me. I remember I cried for you, because all the misery of our lives we left behind had come to good--it had come to you. I know you never learned I was there that night. I waited in the car until your grandfather kissed you good-bye and sent you on your way for the evening.

"'Now you understand,' he said to me as he entered the car and I dried my tears, not wanting to cry anymore. Those were the last words of Russian we ever exchanged and there was no more bitterness in my heart."

Nana's voice trembled and she reached to touch his cheek, gazing lovingly into his eyes. "You had the power to help me forgive. You are my salvation, my darling. I love you like my own child. Why have they brought me here? I won't go back to that world, Joshua. Make them send me to France...please. If I have to leave, let it be France."

"Nana. What have you done that would make them deport you?"

"I know you know, Joshua. The mail--it comes to you. You know the money is missing now, I'm sure of it."

"I don't care about the money, Nana. But why did you take it?"

Her eyes grew wide, desperate, and her voice rose as she went on, almost babbling. "I sent it away. I sent it so they would stop hurting you--but I was wrong; it's done no good. The debt is paid, but they're still after you. He won't let you go, Joshua. He told me when he died that he'd never let your family live in peace. I believed it; I wished for it, and now I know the devil was in me--he lived in that land of suffering and death. He drove us all mad and we forgot God, we forgot who we were. I would give anything to take it back. I would give anything."

"What did you do, Nana? Who are you talking about? Why does he want me dead? Is this the man standing with my grandfather in that old photo you kept?"

She didn't answer; she just covered her trembling mouth with her hand, closing her eyes.

"Is his name Alexander? Why did Grandpapa call me Sasha, Nana? Can you please tell me?"

She wiped her eyes and shook her head. She would say no more. 

###

2:54 PM

Nanette had agreed to submit to the writing examination, on one condition--that Joshua remain in the room with her the whole time.

Mulder sat across from Joshua at the opposite end of a table while Nanette faced the therapist in the center. The psychologist had set a pen and several wide sheets of thick paper in front of her. He held up his finger in front of her face, asking her to follow it with her eyes.

"Why is he doing that to her?" Joshua complained aloud, and the therapist dropped his hand, giving Mulder another impatient look.

"Joshua, I'd like Nanette to be in a light trance for this examination."

Joshua glanced at his manager. She looked pale and scared even though he was holding her left hand. "Why?"

"Trust me. It's to make sure she's writing in her natural hand."

Joshua opened his mouth as if to launch a whole new complaint campaign. Mulder broke his official FBI persona and looked pleadingly at him, as his friend. "Just do this for me, Joshua...please."

Joshua dropped his eyes, relenting. He nodded gently.

"Can we resume now?" the therapist asked.

"Yes, please."

###

Nanette was in trance and the pen was moving on the paper before her. Her writing was small and precise--it didn't resemble any of the samples. To get at her most primitive consciousness, the therapist was gradually regressing her--asking her to write from her point of view, memories from the previous years. Joshua and Mulder both watched her make short descriptive responses to particular memories--a walk in the park, a concert, a holiday, a breakfast. Her writing remained steady and unchanged.

They tried other things. The therapist told her to write short responses about Joshua, Ivan, Alice Schmidt, the letters. Her replies were all steady and neutral, no change.

After twenty more minutes, Mulder passed a note to the psychologist. "Ask her to describe 'zariezam.'" It was the Russian word for 'slaughter.' From what Scully had told him, that particular word had upset Nanette a great deal during her translation of the cell writing.

The therapist said the word as requested and Nanette's whole body tensed and her lips twitched as she gripped the pen. Her handwriting abruptly changed and she began to write in French, in a blocky, rough manner. The words were odd, disjointed, like a child's lettering. She wrote:

The soldiers come now. There is blood on the road. I run home. I have grass and bark which I must not drop. We are hungry. The soldiers want grain and animals. There are no animals. They are slaughtered. There is no grain. It is eaten.

I see the house and run inside. The men are gone. They are dead or gone away. Auntie is dead now since winter. We buried her beside the back door. Joseph has run off to beg for food. He has not come back. I hide under the table. The room smells. Tatiana is dead, her bones are in the hall. She died a week ago. Mama will not move her.

I hear Mama coming. She is walking. I did not know she could stand. She is calling for the piggies. There are no piggies. She has a knife in her hand. She is coming into the kitchen. She is calling to me. She is looking for me. Her eyes are bad. She thinks I am a pig. I run.

My feet are swollen. My shoes hurt. I will be dead, soon. I run. 

"That's enough!" Joshua insisted, grasping Nanette's hand, stopping the writing. It seemed his French was at least as good as Mulder's.

Nanette came to, shaking, looking at Joshua. "What happened? Am I done?" She looked to the writing in front of her, dropping the pen from her clenched hand.

"Oh no..." she said weakly, and began to weep. 

********************************

Evidence Room   
4:10 PM

Mulder stretched his neck, hearing it crack painfully. He couldn't believe just 12 hours earlier he'd been in such a state of total relaxation. This job was eating him alive. He flipped through the test papers again. The images the words described were horrible, most likely from Nanette's childhood traumas, her pitiful fight to survive the famine. None of it was close to the type of handwritten evidence Mulder had hoped for. Soon after the exam, Nanette was cleared and released. Mulder told Joshua he would withhold the evidence of Nanette's false marriage as a gesture of good faith. 70-year-old self-reliant women weren't generally menaces to society.

Still, he felt low, cheap. He was hitting dead ends and Joshua knew it. Joshua had helped his manager out to his waiting car a half hour ago to take her home, without FBI escort. Mulder didn't know if he'd be coming back, although he'd asked him to. Joshua's returning look had held a visible hurt--a wavering of trust. Mulder felt like he was going to be sick.

The evidence room door opened and Scully slipped in, reading over a fax.

"What's that?"

"The results of the blood work-up I ordered on the valet last night," she said. "The autopsy itself didn't reveal any abnormalities in Thomas Philmaker's brain function--or what was left of it."

"The SFPD interviews with his co-workers I read this afternoon also seemed to clear him of mental deficiencies," Mulder offered.

"Not to mention the fact he's never had a police record," Scully said, passing the fax to him. "I'm sorry, Mulder. For all I can tell, this guy was a perfectly normal, law-abiding citizen right up until the moment he drove into the wall," she said, dropping into a nearby chair. She looked like she hadn't caught much sleep last night between the autopsy and her 4 AM shift. "Maybe his remains were too traumatized for us to find a connection?"

Mulder leaned forward on his elbows, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Well, I'm out of ideas. You?"

"I think there's still one question we haven't addressed properly yet."

"What's that?"

Scully chose a page of the farm log from the table in front of her and held it up to the light. "Do we know if this is really Ivan Segulyev's handwriting?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because of something I found on the back of this valet ticket." Scully pushed forward the evidence bag containing the ticket with the Cyrillic lettering. "I was in here earlier, doing some translating of my own. The first word on this ticket looked familiar to me. It's a name, Alexander. I then looked at the ledger of names Petrovsky translated for us. Of the five or so Alexanders on the list, one is an exact match for the next string of letters on the ticket--a last name, Kosynakov. Alexander Kosynakov, the half-burned name on the synagogue birth certificate."

Mulder raised his head, feeling hopeful. "Who is he?"

"I don't know, but I'd like to ask Joshua if he can locate some of his grandfather's US correspondence. Forged or not, I want to see if we have correctly identified the author."

Mulder ran a hand through his hair, sighing.

"What is it?"

"That's not going to go over very well with Joshua. It looks like we're accusing his dead grandfather of attacking him."

"Mulder, it doesn't matter what he thinks. We have to get to the bottom of this."

Mulder folded his hands on the table in front of him, pensive. "I'm just not scoring many good points with him today. He's upset with me already over bringing Nanette in."

Scully gave him a questioning look. "Mulder, since when did you develop such a paralyzing sense of empathy? Joshua's an adult; he'll survive this. We have a responsibility to investigate his case from all possible angles, whether they are pleasant to the subject or not."

Mulder didn't answer. He tapped his thumbs together, trying to figure a way around this without letting Joshua know directly.

"Mulder?" Scully touched his hand to attract his attention. "I don't understand. What's going on? Did Joshua say something to you about his case?"

Mulder shook his head. "No, Scully. It's nothing. I just don't want him to feel betrayed by me."

Scully gave him an odd look. "You're speaking in the singular again, Mulder. We're both conducting this investigation--you mean *us.*"

********************************

Chapter Twelve: Four Seasons

********************************

1223 Divisadero   
4:47 PM 

Joshua sat in the backseat of the car, watching the light blue and gray house pull into view. Mulder stopped the car, asking him if this was the correct address--1223 Divisadero. It was. He could still see the chip out of the front awning caused by a zealous overthrow of a baseball. His silver ten-speed bicycle used to rest against the turned column at the entrance to the garage side-door. The vacant pathway was now choked by fallen autumn leaves. This had been his home for three years--the first three years of his professional career--at sixteen, he'd been a musician coming into his own.

"Do you think your mother is home?" Mulder asked, twisting in his seat behind the wheel to determine why Joshua was reluctant to move a hand to the door handle.

Joshua didn't know how to answer his question. In Joshua's mind this was never his mother's home. This was his grandfather's home--the home he had remained in after Joshua moved on to London, Venice, Cairo, Hong Kong. Although he'd sent his mother the keys to this house after the reading of his father's meager will, Joshua hadn't set foot inside the home since his last visit with his grandfather, a few months before he died. "I don't know if she's here or not," he said, opening the car door. "I hope not."

The agents followed him up to the front door where he rang the bell. It was an odd thing to do. He'd never rung the bell before--he'd always strolled in. When no answer came, he took out the tarnished keyring they'd picked up at his flat before heading over. Joshua selected the longest key in the loop and unlocked the door.

Inside, the wide wooden staircase with the cream and teal runner welcomed him like it always had. It was still faded in the same sunlight-exposed spots. The light fixture over the landing still hung from a looped chain. It was strange how little things changed. He walked in and invited Mulder and Scully to have a look around and to head upstairs if they wished. His grandfather's room used to be at the back of the long hall upstairs if his mother had left it alone. He didn't quite understand why Mulder felt it was important to look at his grandfather's handwriting. Joshua *knew* it wasn't his grandfather's writing; he didn't need an analyst to tell him so.

The agents started up for the room, but Mulder paused, noticing Joshua was still standing at the landing, looking into the living room. Mulder asked him if he was okay.

Joshua sat himself down in a chair near the front door. "I'll be fine. I'll come up in a minute." Across the room from him, its back to the windows that looked out at the street, sat his grandfather's wing-backed leather chair.

###

"Let's hear a season, Sasha."

It was early autumn. Joshua was in-between concert dates for almost a week's reprieve. He'd had Nanette book him a flight back to San Francisco so he could have a quick visit with Grandpapa before heading off for a six-week French and German chamber concert series with Philharmonia Baroque. He was playing lead violin for Vivaldi's 'Four Seasons' with a group of historical musicians who performed on instruments made during the same era Vivaldi composed the music. Joshua's Stradivarius was a precise historical match for 1726 and he was invited to join them as guest soloist.

Although he didn't even have his coat off yet and had barely set his bags down, Joshua gladly kneeled on the wide stair landing to unlock the case and shoulder the violin for Grandpapa. He always played for him first as the old man sat in his leather chair, wanting to hear the music before hugs and kisses and conversation.

Joshua tightened the horsehairs on his bow, standing again. "Which season would you like, Grandpapa?"

"Any but winter. It is too cold for winter."

"Summer, then," Joshua decided, and began to play. The brightness of wide grassy meadows and green leaves and pale blue skies sang through the violin. Joshua closed his eyes and let the warmth of the melodic sun take the chill of November out of his limbs as he played. When it was done, he opened his eyes again to his grandfather's pleased and proud smile.

"It is good you are home, Joshua. I had forgotten the sound of sunshine."

The lasting memory of that final homecoming, playing summer out of season for his grandfather, would have been perfect. Every note still sang in his ears--his grandfather opening his arms for him as Joshua set the violin down and came to the chair to kneel before him and wrap his arms about him. He could still feel his long soft beard against his face. It would have been perfect to see it all again, except the chair was moved. His mother had turned it away from the windows and back toward the hearth. It was wrong. Grandpapa always looked outside, not inside. Joshua felt he should get up and set it right, but somehow he couldn't move. He turned his hands over; the sunlight from the bay window passed over the knuckles of his left hand. In full sunlight you could still see the discoloration, faint reminders of a child's discipline gone horribly wrong.

###

The wrappings on his small hands had come off in the spring, just as the last of the snow was melting, running into the gutters outside his new Philadelphia home. Joshua had never lived in such a crowded and busy place. The city scared him, as did the vivid pink and white scarring on his hands. The healing skin was stiff and thick and needed softening and stretching before they could be retrained on the violin. His left hand was the worst. It took most of the spring and the aid of daily physical therapy to get the digits to fall into precise position on the neck of the violin. His vibrato lacked the finesse his nimble child's fingers had once brought to the instrument. It was humbling and frustrating for a child of seven to relearn what had once come so easily to him. From that spring on, Joshua would understand the value of a sound body. He became afraid for his hands, overly cautious when handling sharp objects or riding his bike. He was afraid he'd fall and break them like glass.

After the bandages had come off, Joshua could count on one hand the number of times his mother took the five-hour bustrip to Philadelphia to visit them, before Grandpapa and he moved to San Francisco--distance ending the infrequent visits altogether.

Grandpapa opened the door to her in surprise late that first spring. "Mirriam? Why are you in Philadelphia?" She had been delivered from a cab near the front of their small flat, lost and nervous.

When Joshua saw her standing in the open doorway he ran for his bedroom and closed and locked the door, terrified she had come to take him back. He grabbed his violin case and hid under the bed with it, hugging it to his chest. It was some time later when his grandfather, talking through the door soothingly, assured him it was safe to come out.

"Your mama wants to see you, Sasha," he said, sitting with him on the bed, speaking softly, patting Joshua's head where he had clung to his side, wide-eyed and shaking. "But she will not take you from me. You are my child now--she cannot claim you."

The only way his grandfather could get him downstairs was to carry him gently, still clinging. At seven, Joshua had gotten to be a large potato to carry. He remembered very little from the visit other than he rarely let his head up from Grandpapa's beard. He sat in his lap on the couch next to her, refusing to let go, even for a second. Already he had learned what being loved and kept safe under a caring parent's guardianship meant to him, the difference it made. His mother sat near them, trying to hold his scarred hand, but he kept moving it away to hold onto Grandpapa. He no longer recalled what she said to him. She cried; that he remembered.

Afterwards, Grandpapa took him back upstairs and got him changed and into his bed. He brought him a glass of milk, and wiped the tear-stains from his face, rubbing his back with a warm hand, calming him. "You don't have to be afraid, Sasha. I will always be here with you to keep you safe."

Over time, Joshua began to believe that no one could take him away. As the years passed he wasn't nearly so terrified by her brief visits. He learned to accept them and would entertain her like he would any occasional friend of his grandfather's. But he would not play the violin for her. Never. He hid it in the darkest corner of his room whenever Grandpapa told him she was coming for a visit.

Joshua wouldn't see his father until he was sixteen. The week before Joshua and Grandpapa moved to San Francisco, Grandpapa arranged for them to stop by the farm. Joshua didn't want to go, but Grandpapa told him it was the brave thing to do, to face the past, so he went. His mother was weepy and overly sweet as usual, while his father remained a closed, dark face sitting at the back of the room. Joshua wouldn't look at him as his Grandfather told them about his awards and studies he was to receive in California. As he recalled, they weren't even invited to sit down. Eventually, his father just got up and walked out of the room. Joshua never saw him alive again. The only other thing he could remember from that visit was driving away, looking out the back of his grandfather's car, watching the barn grow smaller and smaller in the window.

Today, his mother was someone Joshua had grown to tolerate. He saw her when he had to--a brief cordial visit on the holidays, or when he happened to be in town. He kept to himself, otherwise, and when they did meet, spoke only when he had to--telling her only what he had to. The way he felt about his father now was irrelevant. He had shut off those emotions years ago, buried them over and covered the dark seething pit with renunciation. He was relieved when he heard his father had died. It was a pale footnote on a death that had crushed his spirit a little over a year before.

###

It was the Black and White New Year's Eve Ball in Paris, France, 1997. Outside, snow fell on the steps of the Theatre du Chatelet as frozen winds blew along the Rue de Varenne. Inside, the harpsichord was metering the brisk tempo going into the final three movements of The Four Seasons, entering winter. Joshua's solo violin broke free from the mincing steps, struck like icicles from the first and second violins, his solo blowing swirling slurs and biting staccatos into the phrase, shattering into finer and finer notes that flew over the instrument's range. Spring, summer, autumn--the prior movements had seemed fake and distant to him, but winter--winter was cold and heartless, bringing a frozen and brittle death to everything it touched. Winter was something he was akin to.

Earlier, at intermission before taking stage for the Vivaldi, a woman in a long velvet red dress had pulled him aside from his green room visitors to whisper four simple words in his ear.

"Your grandfather is dead."

Movement II-Largo. Vivaldi's melody flew over the snowy waste with charm. The music spoke of gold sunlight breaking through thin blue clouds over a stiffened meadow. It sang of peace and splendor in brilliant reflecting prism hues on each blade of grass. It lied to him; it lied to those who listened quietly to the way he played it. Under that frozen and glinting carpet, nothing stirred.

The final Allegro could not come soon enough. A cloud had risen from somewhere deep inside him. Joshua was cold; the heat of the blinding auditorium lights could not stop the frost's gradual consolidation as it poured into his veins. He was locked in the winter night again, the dog pressed against his side. The shivers were coming, those shivers that left him weak and exhausted as they wracked his small body. No amount of burrowing into the hay would stop the oncoming chill. But he played against it, fast and furious, as the tempo rose and the chamber orchestra followed his accelerando out through the loose board in the barn wall, out across the frozen fields to the pond. He ran as fast as he could, but they could still follow him, blowing ice stinging his eyes, catching him in a final F-minor chord as his feet broke the crystal surface of the pond and he began to drown.

Later, someone would tell him he had seemed collected, calm--his playing spirited and chilling. He hadn't heard it, but he was told the audience had been stunned into silence for several moments at the suite's conclusion before erupting into applause, standing from their seats.

Joshua could not remember any of it because in his mind he was playing to an empty room, a blindfold over his eyes ever since intermission. The message of death only came to him in full realization when his head struck the snow-littered steps outside the stage door--blood from his nose staining the pristine blanket in fingers of red. 

###

The day was ending. The sunlight seeping through the windows of the living room was falling toward his knees, growing more orange. Upstairs, Joshua could hear the agents shuffling and clunking about. He knew he needed to see to them and rose from his seat, ascending the stairs. 

***********************

"Let's move this thing back from the wall," Mulder suggested, taking the opposite end of the large locked trunk they'd found under the window in Joshua's grandfather's bedroom. Pushing together, the weighted and leather-strapped trunk slid forward so they could take a better look at how it was latched.

"Wait," Scully said, tracing a strap with her fingertip. "It comes back to here and then...Hold it..." She pushed something in and a latch gave way, freeing the brass lock at the front of the lid.

Together they moved to the front and lifted the lid. Inside, the trunk was filled with the musty smell of age along with a few items of clothing, framed photos of Joshua and various friends, and envelopes containing papers and documents.

"I think we've found the lost treasure," Mulder mumbled as he kneeled to begin rummaging through the items on the right-hand side while Scully covered the left.

The agents had wandered upstairs together at Joshua's invitation. Along the hall, Mulder had noticed in passing what looked to be a child's bedroom, complete with awards and photographs. The next room was obviously occupied by Joshua's mother--a woman's dressing gown was hanging over the end of the bed along with other, older feminine effects--slippers, a knit sweater, a hair brush.

The room at the end of the hall had belonged to an older man. The arrangement of polished antique furniture--the bed, the desk, the trunk--suggested a solid, home-bodied personality. Some of Joshua's grandfather's suits still hung in the closet along with casual clothing. The dresser had been cleared, however, and filled with books, magazines, and other common household items--none of which seemed to have belonged to Joshua's grandfather.

The trunk appeared to hold what they needed.

"Look at this," Mulder said, unfolding an infant's colorful heavy woolen jumpsuit. It looked as if it was finely crafted by knowledgeable hands. The pattern looked Russian. Underneath it was a long, worn, black felt coat. Wrapped in the coat was an old children's book. Scully watched as Mulder opened it, turning the pages. The text was in Russian, and the water-color illustrations were stylized after classic Slavic artwork. On one page was a drawing of a frightening-looking gaunt old man, with long gray hair and a beard, locked in a closet in chains. Mulder exchanged a knowing look with Scully and set the book aside as they continued to dig deeper into the trunk.

"These look like they might be Mr. Segulyev's," Scully said as she pulled some letters from a manila envelope. She flipped through a few pages, passing some to Mulder. Mulder looked at the handwriting. They were business letters addressed to a New York legal office relating to common investments, securities, and properties.

"This isn't the handwriting we've been seeing," Mulder said, handing the pages back. "You were right, Scully. These are signed by Ivan, but they're not a match, and I've been staring at the threats long enough to put the FBI handwriting analyst out of a job."

"Don't be too discouraged," she said, lifting a stack of folders out of the way. "There's more. I think this trunk has a false bottom."

"It does?" he said, assisting her in lifting out the remainder of the contents. Scully reached into the bottom of the trunk and tapped. It did sound hollow. Mulder helped her feel around the edges for a release or seam.

"Let's tip it up," she suggested. Together, they lifted the heavy trunk back on its edge and Mulder held it in place while Scully felt around under the base. Presently, he heard a click and a bolt sliding back. They set the trunk back down and looked inside.

"The edge is raised," Scully said, reaching in to wedge the bottom panel up and off with her fingertips.

Nestled in the bottom, yellowed with years, was a wrapped parcel, tied with string. Scully lifted it out and set it on the floor between them. The package had been mailed to a Philadelphia address in 1984 and then forwarded to 1223 Divisadero in 1986. It looked like the San Francisco address had been written by Ivan Segulyev. The first address had been typed.

"It looks like this package was resealed, but never opened after its second mailing," Scully said. "There's no return address, but the stamps look Russian."

Mulder pulled out his pocket knife and began to cut the string loose. "Let's see what Santa brought."

Mulder unwrapped the parcel to reveal an old, woman's shoebox. The tape that had once held the lid on had long lost its stick and the top slid right off.

There was a dark cloth-covered bundle inside. On top was a Russian birth certificate. Scully picked it up and looked over the Cyrillic. "It's Ivan's," she said after a moment, handing it to Mulder.

He took it from her. The only character he could recognize was the cross at the top center of the document. "How can you tell?"

"I recognize his name. Joshua made a point of showing it to me on the 1929 farm photo. He also said his grandfather was born in 1912. This document is dated that same year."

Mulder fingered the edges of the paper. It wasn't burned like the first one they'd found. "This can't be Ivan Segulyev's birth certificate; I'm sure of it."

"Why?"

Mulder ran his thumb over the cross at the top. "Because Joshua was raised Jewish."

"Maybe Ivan converted?"

"Maybe. But something tells me immigrant refugees of war don't lose their religion that easily."

"Unless he was trying to hide his identity...Oh my God, Mulder. You don't think Joshua's grandfather was a war criminal, do you?"

Mulder looked up. "Why would you say that?"

"Well, the fact that Nanette seems to have had some leverage against him in order to get into this country. And...Joshua has stated many times that his grandfather was very closed-mouthed about his past and deliberately failed to keep old photographs of himself. I think he was hiding something."

Mulder shook his head, brooding. "I don't know what it means. But I do know I want all the answers before we show this to Joshua. I'd hate to present anything that might wrongly accuse his grandfather without definite proof."

Scully nodded her agreement. "Let's see what's in this bundle." She held the dark cloth on her lap and began to unfold it. "Oh..." she said in mild disgust, moving the wrapping to the floor. "There's a dead bird in here." Mulder watched her nudge the feathery corpse aside. Beneath it was a smaller wrapping. Scully exchanged a look with Mulder. He told her with his eyes that *he* wasn't about to touch it. She carefully unfolded the smaller wrapping with her fingers. Inside was part of a charred bone. On the bone was writing.

"That's...that's not human is it?"

Scully snapped a Latex glove on her hand and lifted the bone to her eyes for closer inspection. "It's human all right. It's part of a mandible."

"And the writing...please tell me it's English. I really don't want to take a human jaw to Leo for his translation."

"Sorry, Mulder. It's Russian."

Mulder looked in the shoebox. There was one more item wedged in the bottom, a letter. He removed it and unfolded it. The letter was in Russian, unreadable to him except for two things: the year, 1933, and the identification of the handwriting.

Mulder looked up at Scully, who was still fingering the bone. "We've got a letter here, Scully, from the Thin Man and it's signed Alexander Kosynakov."

***********************

Satisfied with their find, the agents began to repack the evidence for easier removal.

"Where's Joshua?" Scully asked, rewrapping the bird bits. "Did he ever come up?"

"I thought I heard him in the hall a few minutes ago," Mulder said. "This is upsetting him. I'll go check on him if you can finish reassembling this trunk."

She nodded and Mulder stood, brushing the dust from his knees.

Mulder found Joshua at the other end of the upstairs hall, sitting on the edge of his childhood bed, looking up at the trophy shelf. Bits of dust hung suspended in the setting sunlight that broke through the parting in the curtained window.

Tarnished awards, urns and medallions occupied the crowded shelf. Joshua was sitting with his back to the door, idly fingering a faded blue ribbon.

"'And on his head they'd placed a garland, briefer than a girl's'," Mulder quoted.

Joshua turned his head, letting his arm drop at his side. "'To an Athlete Dying Young'...Housman, Mulder? I thought you were sent to protect me from an untimely end?"

Mulder leaned on the door jamb. "I am, but that still doesn't keep the awards of childhood from fading when the boy becomes a man."

Joshua's thoughtful blue eyes met his. "No, I suppose it doesn't. Although I think I've outgrown the thrill of being pinned. Don't tell me--your room at home is lined with similar adolescent achievements."

Mulder let his eyes take in the rest of the room. In addition to the trophy shelf, framed newspaper and magazine articles about the young virtuoso hung on the walls. "No, my room no longer exists. The tracks of my lifetime achievements have all been swept away by Baba Yaga's broom. I like it that way. It keeps people from pointing out what I could have been. Most people at least."

Joshua took in his space as well, glancing up at the ceiling. "It is true; it all looks smaller than you remember. I'm sorry I stalled myself here, Mulder. I was coming to assist you, but I can't seem to make it the rest of the way down the hall."

"You don't have to, Joshua. I think we found what we were looking for--correspondence, in Russian, dating back decades it seems."

"Did you find it in a big leather-bound trunk under the rear window?"

"Yes."

Joshua smiled, wistful. "Good, then his room hasn't changed."

"It doesn't look like anyone's been moving things around. The room is dusty; untouched is my guess."

Joshua ran his fingers over his eyebrow. "Do you think we can go soon?"

"Yeah. Just give Scully another minute or so."

Joshua poked at the blue and black pattern on his bedspread. "When I was nineteen, I was in this room, lying on this bed the night before I left for tour. I couldn't sleep. My bags were already sent on--all I had to do was wait for the car to come pick me up," he said, taking a glance at Mulder before continuing. "I kept feeling like I was forgetting something. My mind wouldn't rest until I figured out what it was. I was scared. I got up and walked to my grandfather's room. His bed was empty, but from the hall I could see there was a light on downstairs.

"I found him sitting in his chair staring out the window. The sky was turning gray; it was nearing sunrise. I came and kneeled next to his chair, putting my head in his lap while his hand rested on my head.

"'I won't go without you,' I told him. I'd never been anywhere without him. He'd always accompanied me. We sat in silence for a while before he spoke.

"'I came here from far away, from a different land with different skies,' he told me. 'I did not know at the time if what I had done was right, if leaving my home behind was what God wanted me to do. But now I know there was a reason I was supposed to leave that place, Joshua--the reason was you. God brought us together, but now he says it is time for you to leave your Grandpapa and go be a violinist for the world.'

"He told me to go get dressed and that he would sit with me until the car arrived. I did and we sat together watching the sun come up. I said very little to him other than good-bye. I don't know if it was his words or the hand of God, but I recall riding away from the house feeling safe, protected. I wasn't afraid anymore."

Mulder regarded Joshua affectionately. "It must be the artist in you--that you can pin-point the exact moment you became a man."

Joshua smiled softly and got up, walking over to his old wardrobe. He opened the stiffened door with a creak, looking in. "Oh my God," he said with wonder.

Mulder took a few steps into the room to stand behind him. "What?"

"Grandpapa's kept all my old violins in here. I told him to give them away--to the Conservatory." Joshua opened the second door, wide. In the wardrobe Mulder could see five violin cases resting one next to the other on a deep shelf. Joshua picked up the smallest one and blew the dust off the case, coughing. He held it in one hand, unlatching it and opening the velvet-lined lid. A diminutive violin lay inside with a reduced bow. "I thought my room looked small...my God, the strings are so close together. I must have been a tiny child."

"Was that your first violin?" Mulder asked.

Joshua shook his head sadly. "No, it was my second. My first was tossed in the fire by my father. This one is slightly larger, but still so small compared to the Stradi."

"Does it still play?"

Joshua smiled fondly at the pint-sized instrument. "A child could play it. I should give it to the Philadelphia Conservatory along with the others. An instrument deserves to be played. They gave me the Stradivarius, after all. Still, I'm glad to see it again."

"What's this?" Mulder reached in and pulled a wide, thick, strap-tied book from where it was resting behind the violins. Joshua closed the case and set the violin back in the closet, taking the heavy ring-bound tome from Mulder's hands as he lifted it out.

"I don't know," Joshua said, bringing it over to set it on the waist-high cabinet at the end of his old captain's bed. He brushed the bits of dust and web wisps from the blue marbled cover and releasing the straps, opened it.

Mulder watched Joshua's reaction as he examined the first few pages of what was clearly a scrapbook of his career assembled by his grandfather.

"I never saw this before," he said with amazement, turning the next page. His eyes caught the memories as they presented themselves page by page. "I had forgotten half of this. This was when I first entered the Philadelphia Conservatory," he said, pointing to a photo of a puffy-haired boy holding a bow in line with a group of similar-aged children. "The eighties did a number on my head. I look like a mushroom," he laughed, turning another page. At the bottom of each photo and in some of the margins, Joshua's grandfather had written captions in a strong, bold hand similar to the business letters Mulder and Scully had just gathered.

"Is that you?" Mulder asked, when Joshua paused at a page showing a newspaper photo of a child in silhouette in front of a professional symphony orchestra.

Joshua looked delighted as he read the handwritten caption. "'Joshua surprises New York City with his rendition of Mozart's Violin Concerto #3.' Remarkable, that was my first professional gig. I was twelve years old. They always want children to play Mozart," he said and turned the next few pages. "My God, Grandpapa saved every clipping of every show I ever did. I knew he watched the papers for my reviews and we would read them together and framed a few of my favorites, but I had no idea he'd saved them *all.* He must have been working on this for a very long time..."

Joshua turned more pages and paused, looking at a photo of himself as a teen in San Francisco standing next to an old man with white hair. "That's Master Gregory; he taught me everything about being a showman. He died not too long after I left for Europe."

The next section of the scrapbook was all about Europe, from the newspaper story announcing Joshua's tour contract after the recording of the Brahms, on through the foreign press reviews of performances in Spain, France, England, Germany, Switzerland, Japan, India, all in diverse languages.

Joshua was plainly moved and amazed by the thoroughness of the coverage. "I can't believe it. Some of these papers...I don't know how he could have acquired them. He followed me all over the world..." Joshua said in almost a whisper, flipping pages one after the other.

"I wonder when this ends..." Joshua said, skipping ahead through what was easily over a hundred pages. Toward the last fifth of the book Joshua slowed, turning the pages more carefully, his eyes tracking and registering the years as they flipped past: 1995, 1996... Soon he came to a set of clippings that were not as securely mounted as the rest of the book. The newsprint had begun to slip loose and some seemed as if they hadn't been well-glued at all. The handwriting that had been strong and bold before was now wavering, awkward, and brief. A page or three later, the handwriting stopped altogether. Even the clippings began to deteriorate in their placing. Some had been partially glued to others, some only folded into the binding. Others weren't cut properly, the scissors having chewed the edges of the paper.

Joshua turned slowly, his expression tight and closed. He paused at each page, taking the clippings in his fingers, straightening them, unsticking them, laying them flat. Mulder started to turn to leave, but Joshua, without looking up from the book, grabbed his hand and held it, gripping him. Mulder stayed, letting Joshua's fingers thread into his, but he couldn't look at the scraps anymore. He couldn't bear to watch Joshua picking up after his ailing grandfather's final faltering steps.

Mulder breathed slowly and held onto Joshua's hand in silence, his eyes rising to the trophy rack. In the curved base of a tarnished award he saw Scully's reflection as she stood behind him in the doorway, motionless, watching them. After a moment she lowered her head and slipped past the door and away.

Joshua made a pained sound.

"Are you okay?" Mulder whispered, turning to him.

Joshua held his mouth tightly, choking down the grief. "I need to leave now," he said with effort. He had turned to the last occupied page. Taped to it was a wrinkled and torn section from the Paris Gazette. Mulder mentally translated the French headline, "Tomorrow Night: Bring in the New Year with Vivaldi, Segulyev and the Four Seasons."

###

Joshua excused himself to the bathroom. Mulder closed the scrapbook, secured it and set it back into the closet where Joshua's grandfather had left it for his grandson to find one day along with his violins.

Scully was waiting in the living room with the shoebox in her arms along with a stack of dusty folders. Her expression was unreadable.

Joshua emerged looking pale and strained. Mulder was following him down the long stairs to leave when a key turned in the lock and the front door opened. A woman in her late sixties came in, startled, until her eyes settled on Joshua, a palpable longing coming over her thin and aging face.

"Maelchik?" she said in a thin voice.

"Hello Mama," Joshua replied tentatively, stalling himself on the stairs. 

************************

She looked even older to him, frail and small. Her long hair was shorter and grayer now, but still clipped behind her head. He must have known this was going to happen--his chest felt weighted as guilt piled on top of sorrow and began to settle in. He'd give anything if he hadn't had to come here today.

"Mama, these are FBI Agents Mulder and Scully. They asked me to bring them here today; we needed to look through some of Grandpapa's papers."

She looked frightened and her hands gripped the strap of her purse. "Why the FBI, Joshua?"

"It's nothing to worry about Ms..." Mulder began, stopping himself evidently when he remembered Joshua went by his grandfather's name.

Joshua glanced at him, moving aside on the step he'd immobilized himself on so Mulder could greet her. "Poltov," Joshua said, looking away, trying to gather himself.

"Ms. Poltov," Mulder said, descending to the landing to shake her hand, reassuringly. "We're just investigating..."

"Someone's been sending me threats in the mail," Joshua said over him. Mulder looked back at him, questioning. "It's nothing Mama, they just wanted to check out some old correspondence to eliminate the people Grandpapa and I used to know."

His mother took some steps forward around Mulder to come closer to him, reaching up to cover his hand with hers on the banister. "What threats, Joshua? Are you in trouble?"

"No Mama," he said, moving his hand casually away. "I'm not in any trouble."

"How long have you been here, Joshua? When did you come to San Francisco?"

He forced his eyes from the floor to look at her. She'd better not cry, he thought to himself. I won't be able to stand it if she cries.

"Joshua, we'll be outside," Mulder said, opening the door for him and Scully to quickly exit. He watched the door close after them. Dammit, he didn't want to do this right now, especially not alone.

"Look at me, maelchik," she said in that sing-songy way of hers. "Let me see you. Why won't you look at your mama?" Her hand was on his, tugging him from his perch on the stairs. He descended and gave her a quick hug, trying not to cringe as he felt how thin she was, and how tightly her arms were squeezing his shoulders. He felt like she would break him. He stepped back from her, trying to find the strength to muster a smile, to make this visit as brief and polite as possible.

"I'm sorry, Mama, I've been busy." She was pulling him by the hand into the living room.

"Sit, sit. Let me look at you. I never get to look at you. You're getting so old, so grown-up."

Joshua suppressed a sigh. "Mama, I've been grown-up for a very long time."

She smiled a thin and wavering smile, tears beginning to gather in her tired dark-blue eyes. "I know, I know. All grown-up. I thought about you all day on Friday. My little boy, my maelchik, turning thirty. I was not much older than that when I had you. When are you going to be married, Joshua? You should be married--a man of thirty needs a wife and children."

"Mama," he squeezed her hands, to try and calm her. Her voice had been rising. "I have music, Mama; I don't need a family."

She reached out her hand to touch his cheek, stroking his face. He closed his eyes, hoping if he indulged her, she'd let him go faster. "You need more than music, maelchik--you need the love of a woman."

God, all these years and she still didn't know the first thing about him--who he was, what he did. Sure, he played that silly violin, but what of it? To her he was still supposed to be some hard-working farm boy with a dull pregnant wife. He felt the pattern starting again, the pattern that marked all their brief infrequent visits together--she babbles, he becomes angry and frustrated, he makes a polite excuse to leave and sickens himself with the guilt for weeks until they are hopelessly destined to meet again.

He opened his eyes, taking her hand from where it had been starting to paw through his hair. "I'm never getting married, Mama. You might as well accept that."

She shook her head, tsking him. "Whatever happened to that young lady of yours, the girl from New Hampshire? She was so lovely, Joshua. I still have the photo you sent. I don't understand why you let her go."

"She's dead, Mama," Joshua said bluntly.

"What?"

He took a long breath, trying to tamp down the darkness he felt threatening to rise in him. "She died last July," he said quietly. "She shot herself."

His mama brought her hand over her mouth. "No, Joshua. Why?"

He brought his hands up over his eyes, dragging his fingers through his hair. God, he didn't want to do this right now. "I don't know."

"No, no...this is not true--it can't be. You were going to be married. She would have been so happy..."

"Mama!" He sat up straight, pulling away, trying to keep his dread from turning into a panic. "It's not my fault."

"But you were so good together..."

This was what he couldn't stand, the endless pointlessness of trying to get his mother to understand he was nothing like what she believed him to be. He took her hands, leaning in, forcing her to stop going on about his false marriage. "It was a mistake, Mama. I made a mistake and now she's gone and I can't do a damn thing about it. I'm sorry I could not marry her--I regret it deeply. I tried to make it happen, but I just couldn't...I won't ever try to marry again. I have my violin and that's all I'll ever need."

His mama just sat there, looking so sad and upset with him--disappointed, always disappointed. "No, Joshua. You do not want to be alone. You don't know what it's like to be alone and old. You do not want to live like this. You are young--you can still be happy..."

He sighed and got up, beginning to pace the living room, a room that brought back so many wonderful and painful memories for him. When his Grandpapa was alive, he felt like there was no one else in the world who mattered. But he was gone, his chair was turned away from the window, empty. Joshua knew all about what it felt like to be alone. He'd been alone now for over two years.

"Mama, I'm sorry that you're lonely. But I have my own life now. I'm happy. I am a concert violinist. I've played for the grandest music halls in the world. This is my life, and I am choosing how I want to live it. I will not be anybody but who I am."

"But you are a man, Joshua, you can choose anything. You do not have to chose to be alone."

He caught her teary glance, shocked and aghast. "What are you saying, Mama? That because you're a woman your life was not your responsibility? That you were forced to marry my father? That you were forced to give me up?" He choked on the words as they came out. He was shaking--he had no idea why these truths were forcing themselves out now. He and Mama never spoke about this. They always pretended everything had been normal between them, just like every mother and son. But now, after seeing Grandpapa's last days laid out page by page, he just didn't have the distance necessary for pretending.

She was quiet, and he turned away from her. The tears he was tired of fighting were making themselves known, and he wiped them away shamefully. He would not cry for her.

"A woman has no choice in who she loves, Joshua. I loved your papa. I could not leave him."

Joshua crossed his arms, hugging himself, trying to breathe evenly. "Not even for me," he whispered, glancing at her through swimming eyes. She was staring at her hands.

"Your papa loved you, Joshua. It ruined him when Grandpapa took you away."

Joshua laughed bitterly, letting the wetness he felt on his face stay and mock him with the irony that he still cared enough about that bastard to be upset. "Let's get something straight, Mama. Fathers who love their children don't make them sleep outside in the dead of winter." He looked at her then, openly, letting her for once see the raw and painful anger there. "And don't try to tell me again that it was my fault--like you used to--telling me I needed to behave, that I needed to mind him better."

"I tried to come see you..." She was weeping now, holding her hands tightly in her lap. "I had no choice," she said weakly.

Joshua wiped his eyes on his sleeve with a snort. He couldn't take it any more--he was not going to stand here while she cried. "You had a choice, Mama," he said, heading for the front door, feeling the sickening suffocation of guilt pressing in on him. He paused a moment as he turned the knob. "You had a key to the barn, too," he said with his back to her, and left the house.

 

* * *

 

********************************

Chapter Thirteen: Lullaby

********************************

6:12 PM

Mulder glanced at his watch. Joshua had been inside for over fifteen minutes. He was beginning to feel it would be a good idea just to leave. Joshua could call for a car, after all. He didn't want himself and Scully to pressure the situation. Joshua had enough to deal with this afternoon.

No sooner had he begun to reach for the handle when Joshua came out the front door of the house, closing it behind him. Mulder hadn't seen his mother in the doorway.

Joshua kept his eyes down as he made for the rear door, sliding into the backseat and shutting it firmly, bringing a hand over his eyes.

Mulder looked over his shoulder. "Are you okay?" he asked softly.

Joshua shook his head briefly. "Just get me away from here," he whispered. Mulder exchanged a look of concern with Scully and started the engine.

###

Marina Flat   
6:32 PM

"Look, Scully. Take the car. I'm going to start my shift early. Don't bother calling Dillmont," Mulder told his partner, handing her the keys as he let Joshua go on ahead up into his flat. "I think he could use a friend right now."

Scully regarded him thoughtfully a moment. She seemed almost sad. "You're right, Mulder. I'll just..." she paused, stumbling over the words.

"What's wrong, Scully?" he asked, feeling his chest clenching for the confrontation he wasn't nearly ready to face yet.

She was looking up the street, avoiding his eyes. "I'll take care of the evidence. Just..." she dropped her eyes and sighed. "You're a good friend to him, Mulder. Take care of him, okay?" She managed a smile and Mulder felt his entire body relax. Impulsively, he reached out and brushed her cheek lightly with his thumb. She looked up at him and smiled warmly. "Goodnight, Mulder," she said with a tone of affection he hadn't heard from her in a long while, like a C-minor chord, both sad and sweet.

"Goodnight, Scully," he replied with a gentle smile, and headed for the stairs to the flat.

*******************************

Joshua was in the shower, his clothes left thrown on the end of the bed. Mulder took off his coat and sat back in one of Joshua's big comfortable chairs, waiting for him to come out. Through the echoing spray of the water Mulder could hear an occasional muffled sound of frustration or grief delivered to the tiled walls. Over a quarter of an hour later, the water hushed, but it was several long minutes before Joshua emerged--dried, robed and downcast.

"Are you all right?" Mulder asked him, as he watched Joshua slip out of his robe and into a fresh loose cotton shirt and pair of undershorts. The musician's back was to him, but he nodded as he sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his posture betraying his exhaustion.

"I'm sorry you had to go through all that today."

Joshua turned his head so Mulder could see his face in profile. His eyes were slightly red-rimmed and he would not look at him directly. "Are you?" Joshua asked, bitterly.

Mulder stood and came over to sit at the edge of the bed, and put his arm around Joshua, pulling him into a hug. He felt Joshua's tension begin to ease as the musician gradually surrendered against his side, lowering his dark head and wrapping his arms around him in need. Mulder held him quietly, stroking his back. After a while he felt Joshua begin to breathe more steadily, calming against him.

"Family is never easy," Mulder said into the man's hair.

Joshua gave a short, bitter laugh and sat up, laying his hand over Mulder's. "Especially mine," he said sadly, shifting to lay down on the bed. "I know in my heart that I'm supposed to love her and care about her because she's my mother--for no other reason than that. But tell me how I'm supposed to feel kindly toward someone who chose to stand beside the one person in my life who hurt me the most?"

Mulder regarded Joshua, conveying understanding. "I know how hard it can be to learn to trust someone who failed to protect you as a child. All I can say is that I know just how difficult it can be to forgive *yourself* for being the one who failed to provide that protection."

"You're speaking from experience," Joshua said in realization.

Mulder lowered his head. He sat still, summoning the courage to describe it. "You asked me once if I had ever killed a woman..." Joshua eased himself up on his elbow, drawing closer to Mulder, trying to catch his eyes. "I haven't, but I've come very close."

"What happened?" Joshua asked softly.

Mulder's face rippled with a wave of deep remorse and self-reproach before he spoke--so quietly, he wondered if Joshua could hear him. "In all my training as an agent, all my drilled responses...there was a case with a man, a sick man who got inside my head and turned all those honed skills against me. He turned me into a weapon against myself, against my partner--the only person in this godforsaken world who would ever draw fire from me--and he made me turn my instinct on her. I stared her right in the face and held my weapon at her head, Joshua...she was wearing a goddamned vest and I knew it and aimed for her head..." He bit the inside of his lip, trying to gather the words and force them out. "He had tapped into every known weakness in me...my wounds, my childhood fears...he made me see her as an enemy and I believed him because those false truths were buried in me. My head was screaming for me to let go and act...to save myself, to save her..."

Joshua started to reach for his hand, but paused as Mulder glanced at him with a look that said 'wait.' "She stopped me, Joshua; I have no idea how she knew to do what she did because in my mind she was already dead. I saw her dead and bleeding on the floor. Afterwards, months later, I was still haunted by that vision and just how close it came to being a reality."

"You've never forgiven yourself."

Mulder shook his head. "Nor will I. It's something I'll always carry with me."

"I had no idea...I'm sorry; I've been callous with you."

Mulder managed a half-felt grin. "I'm not trying to one-up you, Joshua. We all have our own sins to bear. I doubt the weight of living is felt any lighter one person to another. All we can do is try to keep going, doing our best. Death comes when we're ready to give up that load."

"I'm not nearly ready, Mulder. I want you to know that."

Mulder took Joshua's hand briefly and let it go, nodding. "Neither am I."

"Will you lie down with me? Just for a while?" Joshua asked quietly. His lapis eyes were softened from grief, vulnerable. "I can't seem to summon the energy to finish dressing."

Mulder loosened his tie and smiled. "Move over, then." 

###

8:55 PM

Joshua woke a few hours later to the smell of melted cheese and spicy meat. He opened a lazy eye, still burning a little from the emotions he'd shed earlier in the day. He felt better now, warm and sleepy, covered in a thick blanket. Mulder was seated at the kitchen bar on a stool, his dress shirt unbuttoned, revealing a white V-neck t-shirt. He was bouncing a knee and flipping through a magazine while taking a bite from a slice of what Joshua knew to be pizza--a delivered pizza. The big soggy box was sitting on his kitchen countertop next to a six-pack of cola. So this is what happens if I sleep through the dinner hour, he thought, amused. My guardian reverts to his feral state. Good Lord, that wasn't a paper plate Mulder was dining off of, was it?

Joshua sat up, the blanket sliding from his shoulder where it had been carefully tucked. "Please tell me you're not eating pepperoni in my house," he said, sliding his bare feet to the cold floor and stretching into a standing position.

Mulder looked over at him. "Nope, this is Luigi's finest--sausage, mushrooms and olives. I saved you some," he grinned, flapping his slice at him from across the room.

"Ugh," Joshua commented, yawning, and pulled on his robe to come join Mulder on a stool, facing him from the opposite side of the bar.

"Cola?" Mulder offered, reaching for the six-pack behind him. He slipped a frosty can from its plastic ring and set it in front of Joshua on the counter, popping the tab with one hand. It fizzed over onto the smooth polished tile, leaving a tan ring.

Joshua started to get up. "Let me get a cup..."

Mulder stilled him with a hand on his wrist and a smirk. "Sit. Just once I want to see you drink out of a can."

Joshua looked uncomfortably at the cola top fizzing with carbonated run-off. He wasn't expected to suck that off first, was he? Who knew where that can had been. "My fingers will get sticky," he said, pointedly.

Mulder snorted. "Excuse me? You'll stick your fingers in my ass, but you won't touch the side of an aluminum can? What planet were you raised on?"

Joshua tried to look offended and valiantly gripped the cold can in his right hand. With an obstinate raise of his brows, he lifted the soda to his mouth, taking a quick series of gulps. He set it down, triumphantly smug, but was soon mortified by an unexpected belch that rose up from his belly. He clamped a hand over his mouth, catching the burp just shy of announcing itself with a loud rabble. He blinked against the carbonation sting in his throat before he spoke in a strangled voice. "God, I hate soda."

Mulder was beside himself with low chuckles over his companion's faux pas. "Don't tell me you've never let one go in public before, Joshua. I won't believe it," he said, wiping part of the ridiculous grin from his own face with a napkin. "Here, try the pizza. I can't wait to see what you do with this."

Mulder peeled off a delivered paper plate and flimsy napkin and set them in front of him. The top right corner of the napkin was soggy from God-only-knew-what and the Dali-esque pizza slice Mulder plopped on the plate didn't begin to have a serviceable edge to lift from. "I suppose a request for a fork will go un-honored," Joshua said, trying to stay stoic, but the enjoyment he saw reflected in Mulder's hazel challenge made the request impossible to resist. Hell, he'd eat cold Spam out of the can if it made this man happy. Joshua peered at his slice and began to poke at an olive with his index finger. "I hate olives, too."

"There's no pleasing you, is there?" Mulder teased.

"That's *not* true," Joshua said, lifting the flimsy plate and dipping his head toward the rubbery cheese to shove the slice over the edge and in the general direction of his mouth. He bit down and pulled back quickly, but not quick enough to stop a long string of cheese from clinging to his chin. He set the plate down and quickly retrieved the dairy garland with a grunt. He popped it in his mouth and chewed. "This isn't even real mozzarella--it's a Monterey Jack substitute," he mumbled, figuring talking with his mouth full would probably thrill the agent as well.

Mulder applauded him with a lively nod. "Not bad. Good form. Nice work with the cheese, although you could have done without the gourmet review."

Joshua smiled and shrugged, taking another big bite, licking the sauce off his upper lip. "I didn't say it wasn't tasty...to a certain palate."

"The oil and cheese palate?"

Joshua nodded, reaching for his napkin. At the last second he decided against the mystery stain and grabbed a paper towel off the roller to his left instead. "Thank you, Mulder. I'm feeling much better now."

Mulder smiled at him and took a swig from his own cola, downing it and crushing the can in his fist. "Remind me to take you to a Giants game sometime. I'll show you the finer points of devouring a ballpark frank with hot mustard and extra pickle relish."

"I'll hold you to that," Joshua replied, fondly recalling falling asleep against this man's side a few hours ago. "If there's ever a way to please me, I'm sure you'll find it."

###

They finished off the pizza together and Joshua managed to survive sucking down the rest of the can of soda. They laughed and chatted about nothing important throughout the remainder of their meal--not the case, not his mother or grandfather or Nanette, not a thing that had draped such a heavy shadow over Joshua's life earlier that day. It pleased Joshua that Mulder could be so easy to just be with. He'd never been with someone who took so naturally to the domestic side of life. It amazed him to watch Mulder wipe down the counter and pack out the pizza debris with the trash. Yes, it was nice to have a man around the house.

Joshua felt a genuine rush of happiness when they eventually fell onto the bed, half-naked and kissing. There had been a brief toothpaste battle in the bathroom that had left Joshua's sink a mess of blue smears. But he didn't care one bit as he relished the feel of Mulder's spearminted mouth on his, his long arms holding him down on the bed as he felt the man pressing against him, growing hard in his boxers. They rolled about and kissed unhurriedly, taking a languid pace, enjoying the night and the light and heavy feeling of being caressed and gripped and tasted and licked with curiosity and tenderness.

When they finally reached that heated state of deep arousal, Joshua wanted to be taken again and rolled over onto his back, inviting Mulder to face him between his legs. The invitation was taken honorably, after some teasing preparation, by the firm full thrust of the agent's cock and the warm lubricated grip of his matching fist stroking him over and over into a sheer humbling climax. Mulder took his time finishing, kissing and fucking him slowly until his ass ached in a most gratifying way and he could watch the man's orgasm rise and come over him lap for lap like a deep swell in the Bay, both shuddering and groaning with the depth of pleasure it brought them.

*********************************

11:45 PM

Mulder lay on his back watching the streetlights and passing cars reflecting white and red light against the windows. Mulder supposed he should have gotten up and dressed himself by now, but he wasn't quite ready to give up the warmth and comfort of Joshua's bed--especially while Joshua was still in it. The sleeping violinist was lying with his arm thrown over Mulder's chest, with his lips against his shoulder, leaving a warm moist spot growing with every deep even breath (not that the man would ever admit to drooling). Mulder knew he was getting sloppy with his duties, but tonight he didn't care as much. He was too assuaged by the calming effects of deeply satisfying sex and intimacy. They'd spent a long time after the sex, just lying together, kissing and touching, not wanting to move apart. It had felt wonderful--being with Joshua made him feel strong and important, valued, appreciated. It was nice to do something right for someone for a change. He hoped the nature of the case would ease up on Joshua from here on out--he never wanted to put him through the emotional strain that visiting his mother's house had brought him. Although all the pieces had yet to connect, Mulder sensed they were very close to finding a resolution. More than anything he wanted to bring Joshua peace again, beyond the bedroom. For now he could hold him and try to stay awake, while his weapon cast a shadow across the wide headboard where it lay overhead, ready.

###

Mulder woke to the sound of the violin. He opened his eyes, reluctant to kill the soothing dreams the music was bringing to his subconscious. Dreams...? Shit. He'd fallen asleep after all. He leaned up on one elbow, rubbing his eyes. Joshua sat at the foot of the bed, his back to him, playing the violin in silhouette. The raw honestly in the slow sad music sounding through the strings kept him from speaking, from interrupting him. He eased his head back against the pillow and just listened, enraptured, until Joshua finished, laying the Stradivarius on the bedcover.

"That's beautiful; what was it?" Mulder asked quietly.

"I don't know..." Joshua answered, in a distant voice. "It just came out of me. It wanted to be played. Although part of it I believe was from a Russian lullaby my grandfather used to play when I was very young. I thought I had forgotten it."

"Do you think you could remember it? I'd love to hear it again."

Joshua shook his head. "I don't think I can...It's breaking my heart." He sounded like he was on the verge of tears and got up to put the instrument away. He stood naked and pale against the dark sweep of the piano.

"Joshua?"

The violinist turned, releasing a heavy sigh.

"Come back to bed."

********************************

Chapter Fourteen: Vintage

********************************

3:35 AM

It was nearing four AM, a time of morning Joshua had come to dread. He had been unable to get back to sleep after his improv a few hours ago. He was lying on his side next to Mulder, who was now dressed and leaning back against the headboard on pillows, typing in his laptop. The glow of the monitor cast a bluish tone over his unusually handsome face, giving his eyes a curious doll-like transparency.

Joshua hadn't realized it at first, but Mulder had started his shift a few hours early last evening, giving them more time than usual together. Even so, Joshua felt himself wishing for more, wishing for a time when Mulder wouldn't have to leave him before dawn--a time when he could sleep next to him all night and into a late morning with newspapers, coffee and tousled hair. He wondered if that day would ever come, or if this was all going to end when the guillotine over his head disintegrated. It surprised Joshua how much the course of this affair mattered to him. He usually accepted relationships as they came, and was at peace with them when they went. Yet here he was with someone whose duty was to show up every night and he was already hoping and yearning for more.

Over the years, Joshua had supposed the trust and security he was seeking in a companion could only be found in the female of the species, and he had spent over half a decade looking for a commitment there. But deep down, he knew the only times he had completely lost himself had been during those few, brief heated grapplings with members of his own sex. It was the only way to get at the core of him, to set free that soul-deep release. More often than not, he'd awake cold and alone wishing for a male lover who could extend those needs into the waking hours, to become more than a hard body, but a friend, a confidant. He knew it meant his job to stay alert, but Joshua longed to unshackle Mulder from his professional obligations, and in freeing themselves, see what roles they would assume. An idea quickly formed in his head and he sat up.

"Mulder, call your partner, tell her not to come."

Mulder looked up from his laptop. "You know I can't do that, Joshua. We're on shifts."

"Then let's take you off shift. I have tomorrow... or today, rather... off. Let's get the hell out of here for the day; no one will be the wiser."

"You mean leave San Francisco?"

"Yes, if the threat is here in town, then let's leave town. I'll take you up to Sonoma, show you a thing or two about grapes. It's beautiful this time of year; the vines will be changing colors."

Mulder tapped his space bar--he was thinking it over.

"I'm not under house arrest. If I want to leave town I can, right? You can offer to take the watch for the day."

Mulder rubbed his forehead. "What do I tell Scully?"

"Tell her she has the day off."

The agent gave him a sarcastic look. "That's going to be just to the left side of normal for me. She's certain to be suspicious."

Joshua flopped over on his back, grinning like an errant child. "What does she think we're going to do in Sonoma, sleep together?"

Mulder pursed his lips. "You do have a point."

"Come on, you deserve it," he said, running his hand over Mulder's thigh. "We'll go back to your hotel so you can change and shower. I'll call for the car to meet us there by six. We'll get an early breakfast and head on up. It's about a two-hour drive; you can sleep on the way."

###

Marriott Hotel   
5:10 AM

Mulder emerged from the hotel bathroom to find Joshua flipping through the suits in his closet. "Where's the suit you wore the night we went to Berkeley?" Joshua asked over the whir of the hairdryer. Somehow, Mulder had gone to bed with a man and woken up with a wife. Oddly, he just didn't mind all that much--at least Joshua noticed what he wore. "The dark blue one, far right."

"That's it." Joshua removed the hanger and laid it out on the bed while Mulder finished drying his hair, a towel tucked around his waist. Joshua looked at the suit and then at Mulder in the towel with poorly disguised lust. "I love you in blue. You have no idea how badly I wanted to kiss you that night."

"As early as that?" Mulder asked, shutting off the blow-dryer and letting the towel drop carelessly. He walked over to sit on the edge of the bed, slipping into a pair of boxers. Joshua didn't miss a beat of it, either. He certainly had a thing for his cock, and he wasn't about to be shy about it.

"I pretty much wanted to fuck you from the start. Kissing you, however, took longer to decide. Ten to fifteen minutes later I think," he grinned, still eyeing the bulge as it slid into dark navy wool. "You drove me crazy that first night we were together in my bed, wanting your mouth."

"Why didn't you just...I don't know...ask me?"

Joshua cupped his own chin, thinking. "I don't know. I was afraid you'd be offended. Not all men like to be kissed like that. It's easy to get a man to give you his cock; his mouth on the other hand, is a whole other matter. The act of kissing is much more intimate."

Mulder nodded in agreement as he put on a crisp white shirt and then his socks and shoes. Kissing Joshua had certainly rushed him a great deal farther along this path he was now charging right up without much caution. He wasn't going away with Joshua today solely because he had been asked. He wanted to see if he felt any different being away from his job and other obligations, namely Scully. He wanted to see if he could gain some distance from the guilt and the fear he'd never be able to explain this situation with Joshua to her. It didn't help matters that he was dressing in front of his lover just a few doors up the hall from her room where she was hopefully still sleeping in.

He'd called Scully on his cell earlier while they were taking a cab back to the Marriott. He'd told her Joshua was heading out of town and he might as well tag along, dutiful agent that he was. He hated deceiving her about it and felt even more foolish when he resorted to Joshua's dialogue suggestion about telling her to just take the day off.

"You're kidding, Mulder. You're asking me to spend an entire Monday off the clock. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"I dunno, Scully. There's plenty of things to do in the city. You could catch a movie, a show, a ...." In the backseat next to him, Joshua mouthed the word 'zoo.' "Go to the zoo, lots of stuff to see there." God, he was a miserable liar.

Mulder slipped on his coat and clipped on his holster. "Tie or no tie?" he asked his fashion consultant.

"Hmm, no tie...I like seeing a little flesh. It's like getting an early peek at a birthday present."

Mulder had to laugh at that comment as he picked up his wallet, badge and keys. God, this was getting fucking weird, he thought with humor--*Wake up Mulder, you have a boyfriend.* And a rather talented and attractive one at that. Joshua was looking especially striking in a dark thick charcoal wool coat and slacks. He wore a finely tailored pale yellow linen shirt, sans tie. Joshua was quite a gift to behold himself, and Mulder was finally beginning to really appreciate it. He was looking forward to being with him someplace beyond the SFPD and FBI beat. "Why don't you head down to the lobby while I slip some paperwork under Scully's door."

Joshua nodded and with an amused smile, reached for the doorhandle. As he passed him, Mulder added, "I just hope for your sake, that San Francisco really does have a zoo."

"It does," Joshua insisted, pulling the door shut behind them.

###

Joshua and Mulder enjoyed a quick breakfast in the hotel lounge before heading out to wait for the car that pulled up at exactly 6:00 AM. It was a short black limousine not dissimilar from the one they took to the Cliff House the eve of Joshua's surprise party.

"This certainly falls a few yards short of inconspicuous," Mulder commented, sliding onto the dark leather after Joshua.

"You'd be surprised, Mulder. Lots of visitors take hired cars to the Napa and Sonoma valleys. You get choice parking and don't have to worry about sampling yourself silly."

"Well, I don't know about all that sampling myself. I'm still armed," Mulder yawned, crossing his arms, waiting for the car's heater to unthaw him from the ten minutes they'd stood out front. He closed his eyes. It was a cold clear autumn day with a blustering wind that seemed to come up out of nowhere. He'd avoided the warming effects of coffee at breakfast so he could catch a nap.

"Mulder, I told you. I want you off-duty today. Expect to be liberally plied with wine, cheese and chocolate. Besides, I asked my driver to bring his weapon today."

Mulder opened his eye, concerned. "What?"

"It's okay," Joshua assured him, lowering the privacy shield. "He's a licensed security guard. He's worked for me many times. Andy, show Mulder your gun."

Mulder leaned forward to see the driver was indeed packing. He gave Joshua a dissatisfied look and raised the screen back into its closed position. "Joshua, I don't like this at all," he whispered, although it was unnecessary; the driver couldn't hear them unless the comm was on. "I don't know this man."

Joshua leaned over and squeezed his hand. "It's all right. Trust me. I've known Andy for years--he's fine. He's safe. I want you to relax today, have a good time."

Mulder settled himself back into the seat, closing his eyes. "I would prefer it if you had asked me about this ahead of time. I could have run a background check."

"I'm sorry," Joshua said, rubbing his hand soothingly. "I want just this one day. Then we're back under your orders, okay?"

Mulder nodded reluctantly, and reclaiming his hand, soon began to drift off to sleep.

###

8:45 AM

Aside from waking during a quick stop at the bank for Joshua to pick up a "shameless amount of spending cash," Mulder slept the entire ride up, the smooth rolling of the car lulling him into a surprisingly refreshing two-hour nap.

Joshua woke him with a gentle nudge once the car came to a full stop.

Mulder straightened up, blinking. "Where are we?"

"On top of the world," Joshua smiled, throwing open his door. "Come have a look."

Mulder slid out of the car and got to his feet, taking a stretch. He could hardly believe what his eyes saw when they came into focus. They were parked at the top of a tall hill surrounded by white marble channels of running water, cascading down the hillside over descending steps into rectangular pools with spraying fountains. The crest of the hill was pyramid-shaped, covered in fresh manicured grass set with windows and terraces and rose gardens--a geometric palace built into the peak of a hill. He'd never seen architecture quite like it before.

Turning around, he realized they were surrounded on all four sides by low rolling hills corduroyed in a patchwork of grapevines. The vines were freshly harvested, but still bedecked in their wide pointed leaves, all painted in various shades of burnt orange, red, burgundy, forest green, and earthy browns--each patch taking on its own combined and distinctive color--block for block over the landscape. The short, thick, twisted espaliered vines stood proud, in row after row like old children joining hands, stretching across the verdant slopes. It looked like Eden.

"Welcome to Bundschu Vineyard, Mulder," Joshua said, enjoying his awed reaction to waking in such a place. "They make damn good sparkling wine here."

"God..." was the only thing he could think to say about it.

"Yes, I do believe we have a higher power to thank for the rest."

Joshua had picked up a thermos of coffee at some point on the way up and offered a cup to Mulder, who took it, still trying to convince himself he wasn't dreaming. He sipped it slowly, watching a flock of starlings swirling like schooling fish through the cold blue air, coming to light on the rows upon rows of vines running along the vineyard hillside.

"The winery doesn't open for another twenty minutes. We can have a seat at the fountains and enjoy the air."

Mulder followed him down the white stone steps to the closest fountain pool and had a seat on the low wall. The water was flickering circles of yellow morning sunlight across the shallow tiled bottom.

Mulder took in the view and the coffee, feeling himself finally coming alert as the hot beverage warmed his belly. Joshua sat near him on his left, wrapped in his heavy wool coat watching the birds, while the fountain rushed to his right, hitting them with an occasional light mist. "I love Sonoma," Joshua said. "I'm glad I was able to bring you here. Do you feel rested? I plan on running you all over the valley."

"Pour me another cup and I'll be ready to go."

###

The inside of the hill was as beautiful and unusual as the exterior. Mulder stood under a long skylight looking down at the thin clouds reflected in a slate-bottomed pool lapping at his feet. He'd just finished touring a display of centuries-old casks and antiquated grape presses and barrels. Everywhere he went, he smelled the musty rich scent of fermenting grapes.

Joshua was at the tasting counter trying to decide between the extra dry or medium dry bubbling wine. He tried to persuade him to come have a taste, but Mulder opted for the water glass and biscotti instead--the coffee was still too fresh in his stomach. Joshua collected him after he made his purchase and they headed out from the palace in the hill, on to the next engineering wonder.

Each of the wineries they stopped at had a selection of four or five bottles open for tasting. They stood together at the long bars crowded with visitors, sipping and listening as the viticulturists poured and explained the importance of temperature, soil and air-- or why each wine was fruity, dry, sweet, oakey, or reminiscent of watermelon, peaches, or chocolate.

Joshua was standing close at his side at a long bar, swirling a cabernet under his nose a few times before taking a small sip. "This is an especially complex red. The vineyards here at St. Supre are over 75 years old. Their roots go very deep, picking up flavor essences in the soil. This cab has an oakey taste with both raspberry and chocolate overtones." He handed his glass to Mulder. "Try it." Mulder took a sip. It tasted incredible, but he couldn't say it was anything like chocolate.

"It's good," he said, handing the glass back. "But I'm just not tasting the Hershey's."

Joshua finished off the swallow. "It takes some practice. You'll get the hang of it. I think I'll get a few bottles for Andy. He enjoys a good cab."

After a while, the visits all began to blur together. Joshua knew his wineries and grapes from Clos du Bois's Johannisberg Riesling to Lytton Spring's Gewurztraminer. The landscaping and structure of the wineries were both eclectic and traditional--from a hall built of piled wire-wrapped stone, to the dark and wet musty caverns of Ravenswood. Mulder remembered one with a large frog pond that he and Joshua walked around to sit at a bench near some willow trees. There were old stone manors covered in vines and homesteads surrounded by manicured Elizabethan knot gardens and white fences. Mulder followed him about in a pleasant wine-induced buzz the majority of the afternoon, just enjoying the exceptional scenery. He had told himself to take it easy on the alcohol, but Joshua was always there at his side at the tasting table swirling "just a sip of Gamay" or "you must try this Merlot." The deal was you were welcome to dump the remainder of your glass into a tureen, and they often did, but all those little sips add up over time. By midday, Mulder surrendered his gun to the driver, officially retiring from duty until his head cleared or Joshua had his fill of buying up bottles of wine.

"My collection's been getting low," he explained, handing Andy his gift of selected Cabernet along with another handbox of late harvest dessert wines to load into the leaden trunk.

###

The chill in the air made the contrasting interior of the warm car cozy and inviting. There was hot cider and slices of cheese to be enjoyed between stops along with warming hand rubs, cold noses and deep, flavorful kisses.

"I knew you would be good to kiss," Joshua said, shifting back on the seat, catching his breath from a particularly intense round of oral contact that had left them both blurry-eyed and aroused. They were traveling up Highway 12, cruising to the next port or sherry.

"How's that?" Mulder asked, cooling off by popping a jalapeno-stuffed olive in his mouth.

"Because you have an honest face. There's a sincerity about you, an openness I rarely see. You're not afraid to show yourself. I enjoy that about you."

Mulder thought the compliment over as he discarded the toothpick in a small bag, selecting a bite of sharp Gruyere, chewing it thoughtfully. He swallowed. "You'd be surprised how often that honesty gets my ass into trouble."

"How so?"

"I have difficulty keeping my opinions to myself."

"Such as...?"

"Well, my insistence on the existence of extra-terrestrial life for one."

Joshua looked a bit stunned, yet somehow intrigued. "How do you figure that for a fact?"

Mulder paused a second, then decided to take the leap. "I've witnessed it."

Joshua gave a nervous laugh. "You're shitting me."

"No, I'm not shitting you. I've seen aliens. Lots of them." He stole a glance at Joshua. The violinist was hovering over his cider, about to take a sip. He cleared his throat instead and set the cup back down in its holder.

"Where?" he asked, sounding both a little scared and awed.

"All over. They live here. With us."

Mulder gave Joshua a break while he tore himself off a handful of baguette, chewing quietly.

"In California?"

Mulder grinned. "No, not in California. Much colder regions."

"What do they look like?"

"Four-and-a-half-feet tall, dark-gray skin, big lidless eyes, large bald heads--you know, the usual," Mulder said, casually, like he was describing a race of New Guinea tribesmen.

Joshua blinked, trying to gain some logic over this turn in the conversation. "What do they want?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out," Mulder said, regarding him with reassurance like a father looking into the eyes of his child when he tells him there's no such thing as monsters. The problem was, there were.

"I don't... Shit, I can't believe it. But I do believe it, coming from you. I'm thoroughly disturbed now, thank you."

"You still think kissing me is a good idea now that you know my real reason for joining the FBI?"

Joshua quirked a half-formed smile. "God help me, I do."

###

In the heart of town Sonoma Square offered four blocks of shops, cafes, galleries, and restaurants, plus an adobe mission and even a cheese factory. Aside from clothing, Mulder wasn't much of a shopper, so he tried not to get in too much trouble with the bell pepper-shaped egg timers and expandable sponges while Joshua set about buying up half of what must have been the eleventh store they'd stepped into. The driver had already taken three armfuls of bags back to the car in the last hour and a half.

Assorted mustard-based condiments, a six-piece glassware set, a blue and black melty-looking vase and a rubber duck were being rung up while Joshua asked the sales clerk if the dish towel set came in lime green. Feeling a tad out of the loop, Mulder wandered outside to spy a used bookstore one shop over. He sent a hand signal to Joshua who was fingering a wreath of garlic (now that's something that might actually come in handy) while he slipped away next door, leaving the armed driver to keep an eye on him.

The bookshop had that comforting musty smell of old paper and leather bindings Mulder loved. He inhaled fondly as he made his narrow way back to the parapsychology shelving.

He had read most of the first and second chapters of Carl Sagan's "The Demon-Haunted World" when he felt Joshua sneak up from behind, pressing up against him in the quiet corner, his chin on his shoulder. "Good book?" he asked.

"Interesting. I used to have a paperback copy. I don't know what happened to it. Someone cleaned my bedroom a few months ago and I haven't been able to find a damn thing since."

"Then let me buy it for you."

Mulder shook his head, closing the book, easing back into Joshua as he returned it to the shelf.

"I'm determined to buy you something today, you know."

Mulder chuckled. "I think you've bought most of the state of California something today."

Joshua kissed the back of his neck. "I know you're bored. We can get going. We have lunch reservations in Harrisburg in 30 minutes, anyway."

"I'm sorry about that. I know you said you didn't get the time to shop very often. I shouldn't keep you from it. Go buy all the dish towels you want."

"I did. They're for Nana. I don't cook, remember?" Joshua said happily, giving him a warm hug. Mulder brought his chin to his for a brief kiss before a large woman started to wander into eye-shot and they moved apart. There was something so indulgently sinful about nuzzling one's male lover in public, Mulder thought. He couldn't deny the heady feeling Joshua's close presence was stirring in his belly. Maybe they could get a hotel room for a few hours after lunch? Or there was always the back of the car. It had served them before.

He tugged Joshua's coat sleeve. "Let's get going."

###

They were being seated at Fantina's Ristorante in Harrisburg when Mulder noticed Joshua had a bag stuffed in the inside pocket of his coat. "What's that?" he asked as they took two chairs opposite one another at a table near the windows overlooking the Italian vegetable and herb garden.

"You didn't really think I was going to leave Sonoma without buying you something, did you?"

Mulder set his napkin in his lap as the waiter brought their bread and poured the ice water. "It's not the rubber duck, is it?"

Joshua grinned and pulled out the bag, handing it across the table to him. It looked like a book.

Mulder opened the bag and recognized the scent of the old bookstore. "When the heck...?" He pulled it out. It wasn't the Sagan after all, but an old thick book on classical music--*The Lives of the Great Composers* by Schumann. He opened the worn bound leather cover and looked inside. It was a first edition, signed by the author. "Joshua, it's..."

"It's the first book I ever owned on the composers. My grandfather bought me a copy when I was seven and used to read it to me at night. I loved hearing about the madness of Wagner and the licentious liaisons of Mozart. It's a wonderful book, written by a man who actually knew many of the great late nineteenth century composers when he was a court pianist in Germany. I thought you'd like it."

Mulder was so deeply moved by the gift; he wasn't sure what to say.

"Look at the cover engraving..."

Mulder closed the heavy leather cover. On the front was an embossed image of a man with a long beard.

"That's a reproduction of a famous lithograph of Johannes Brahms--the same one I saw hanging in the farm house over the piano when I was a kid. See why I loved the book so much?"

Mulder was beside himself with how to thank Joshua for something so profoundly meaningful, to both of them. He could hardly believe it was only five days ago that Joshua and he had first begun to know one another, sitting in his flat listening to him play the violin and talk about Beethoven. He was so moved in fact, all he could think to do was make a light joke. "I've heard you know it's time to question your sexuality when another man starts buying you gifts."

Joshua grinned, pleased to no end. "It's taken a *book* to bring this to your attention? I must be doing something wrong."

"No, you've been doing everything right," Mulder said, thoughtfully, passing his hand over the age-worn cover of the book, feeling the ripple of the leather under his fingertips. "Thank you, Joshua." 

###

Their last stop of the day was Viansa, an Italian villa-style winery that specialized in both fine foods and vino. The upstairs room of the villa was packed with round tables and tasting dishes and crackers for sampling sauces, dips, condiments, and dressings. Joshua was in heaven, quickly filling a hand basket with items such as garlic olive dipping oil, peach-pineapple salsa and butter pecan ice cream topping. Mulder almost lost him in the shuffle of nibblers a few times, trying to catch his dark head behind the tall harvest pumpkin and cornstalk centerpieces.

Mulder caught up with his companion, dropping a couple of chilled bottles of spring water into the basket. "Here, Mulder, try this." Joshua was holding a small fudge-dipped cracker to his lips. He sucked it in quickly, trying to be discreet, but wound up with a few centimeters of Joshua's middle finger in his mouth. Joshua pulled it out slowly. "We'll definitely be needing a jar of this."

"Joshua..." Mulder warned in a hushed voice. He saw an old woman was giving them a pinched and disgusted look from across the table. Joshua followed Mulder's gaze and laughed silently, ecstatic they'd made someone squirm.

"Don't worry about it. I doubt that old woman's had a decent roll in the hay in three decades," he whispered, moving away. Mulder watched him, realizing he had a long way to go before reaching Joshua's level of comfort with the nature of their relationship. He doubted if he ever would be completely comfortable--he was raised with too many biases and was quite frankly, still amazed he found intimacy with a man this surprisingly pleasurable. Was it just the lack of companionship in his life for so many years that was making him bond to Joshua, or was it simply the person? Would he feel differently if Joshua were a woman? He told himself he needed time before he could fully define the nature of his emerging feelings. He doubted they would ever have it.

###

Mulder stood on the Viansa verandah waiting for Joshua to ring his leaden basket through the checkout. The view from here was similar to the one they'd started the day with, but now the color of the sky was changing and the hills were dusted with an aging golden light. They'd need to be heading back soon. Joshua soon joined him at his point of contemplation. He handed Mulder his water and set the bag down while Mulder unscrewed the top and had a long drink. Wine tended to leave one parched.

Joshua was quiet, looking out over the valley. "I don't want to go back," he said.

"I can't blame you," Mulder said, watching the sun beginning to swell into a deep orange-red as it touched the peaks of the distant mountains.

"I want you to stay with me out here tonight, in the valley."

Mulder turned to meet Joshua's resolved expression. "You know I don't think that's a good idea, Joshua."

"Why? What makes it any different from my flat?"

"I haven't slept," Mulder said, seriously.

"There's something I wanted today more than anything else, but I've been waiting until now to ask you, because I wanted to be sure...I wanted to know if you would be the same outside of your duty to me as an agent. I wanted to know you as a companion, a lover."

Mulder could feel an instinctive call for caution rising up his spine, but the honesty in Joshua's eyes as he spoke softly to him was quickly dissolving his reserve. "What is it you want?"

"I want to sleep with you. I want us to make love without a time limit. I want to wake up with you in my arms and order in breakfast. I want to feel what it's like to be with you as if we had just met in a cafe and not under these bizarre circumstances."

Mulder didn't know what to say. His gut was urging him to refuse, while his heart was saying yes to the seductive image Joshua was presenting. It would be nice to fall asleep with someone. That was something normal people did. He wanted that more than he could admit. "You've already made arrangements," he realized.

Joshua gave him the faintest nod. He looked like he was wagering his soul on this. It was damn difficult to refuse this man anything, Mulder was discovering.

Mulder took another drink and screwed the cap back on the water bottle. "So where are we staying? Better not be the Napa Motel Six--I expect the best from you."

Joshua held the deepest gratitude in his tentative answering smile. "I won't disappoint you."

###

Despite the fact Mulder had only three or four hours of sleep in the past 24 hours, it was Joshua who gave up the struggle to remain awake as they rode up to the far end of the neighboring Napa Valley toward the mountainside resort of Auberge du Soleil, their exclusive lodging for the evening. Mulder watched the aisles of vines flicker past the window like a shuffled desk of playing cards, while Joshua breathed quietly in his ear from where he had nestled against his side to sleep. Mulder found it hard not to watch him, unguarded and relaxed. That ten-year-old boy became visible when the violinist slept.

*He loves you,* Mulder told himself. It made him feel remarkably good. In Mulder's life, being loved openly by someone was a rare and beautiful thing. Tonight, he intended to cherish it.

###

Their room was covered wall to curved ceiling in terra-cotta stucco framed by rough solid beams of oak. Blocks cut from aged wine barrels burned steadily in the stone fireplace next to the bed, setting off a rich earthy scent. Four square white paned windows looked out over the patchwork of Napa Valley vineyards at twilight. Mulder removed his long coat and hung it over a chair. Joshua came over from where he had been sitting, watching the fire blaze up, and touched his wrist. His cheek to his, he whispered, "Do you want dinner or me now? I'm hungry for both."

Mulder lowered his head until his nose touched Joshua's hair. "Dinner first. We have all night for the rest."

###

A white tablecloth, two chairs, candlelight and three courses later, they were back in the room, an opened bottle of Orange Muscat forgotten on the hearth. The softness of the bed sheets welcomed them as their skin glowed with firelight and reflected the glistening trails where mouths had met flesh. Slowly, they took turns tasting each other like so many sips of wine. They had arrived at this haven unprepared, so lips and tongues and fingers worked unhurriedly, each taking possession of the other in turn. Like a canon duet, they brought one another to the edge of release and then with a caress or soothing rub, calmed, to change hands and begin again with a slow, deep kiss.

Mulder came to understand why Joshua took such care with himself. He was amazingly sensitive to the places where Mulder was licking him now with lazy intent. Joshua's balls, wet with saliva and melting loose under the warmth of his tongue, ached with each passing of his mouth. Mulder rolled him then, when the feeling became unbearable, and spread his legs, continuing the tastings along his perineum to the sensitive rim of his anus, almost like a clit, begging to be soothed and teased.

It was something Mulder was good at, something he knew would please, and with the removal of the 4 AM hourglass and thoughts of Scully out of his head, he became fully lost in it, tuned only to the soft cries of pleasure coming from the man held captive under his slow ministrations. He had no intention of letting him go for a long, long while.

###

Mulder should have known that the rubber duck would make an appearance before the night was over. It was rocking on the water rippling the reflection of the dimmed bulb lighting overhead. Just under the duck's squeakable ass, Mulder could see the outline of his legs scissored between Joshua's. The younger man reclined with a washcloth over his eyes at the opposite end of the large tub. He watched as his companion reached out with a lazy hand to grope for the bottle of lemon Calistoga and bring it to his lips, taking several large swallows.

"I think," Joshua started to say, after he'd downed half of it. "I think I might have had too much to drink today."

"Headache?"

"Not just yet, but I feel something coming on--an involuntary clenching at the temples. I think I'll be in for it tomorrow. I really don't hold wine very well...the sulfides..."

Mulder freed his legs causing the water to kick up into waves. Joshua grumbled from under his towel. "Stop moaning and turn around."

Joshua sat up, leaning his head over so the washcloth plopped into the slightly steaming water. He turned around and leaned back against his lover, nestling himself between his legs. "What are you going to do?"

"Shh...just lie still."

Joshua complied, lying limp against Mulder while he poured a little herbed bath oil into his palm, smoothing it between his hands and then applying it with his fingers across Joshua's forehead, rubbing in tight circles at his temples. Joshua made a sound of utter contentment and relaxed even further until his chin touched the surface of the water. "Does that help?" Mulder asked, repeating the motions and then journeying down the back of the violinist's head to rub the tendons at the base of his neck.

"Shit...you have incredible hands," he answered between grunts of pleasure.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should--your hands were the first thing I noticed about you. You have a pianist's hands, long and perfect, excellent for hitting octaves. And other important notes of interest..."

"Don't start," Mulder chided, slipping his hands forward to rub Joshua's jaw and chin.

"Mwy?" he tried to ask.

"Because, you're spent."

"Wrong again, agent." Joshua took Mulder's right hand and dipped it down deep into the warm water.

"Shit..." Mulder commented, feeling both impressed and old while he was examining the evidence. "What I wouldn't give to be thirty again. And you've had too much wine."

"Hmm...never been a problem for me. I feel I should tell you I only drink when I'm especially happy. Or in Sonoma. Today, I was both."

"Well, I wasn't exactly reserved myself. Oh, crap."

"What?"

"Andy still has my weapon."

"We'll go next door and get it in a minute. I'm enjoying this too much right now."

"So am I."

"I have a confession to make."

"What?"

"There's something I still want from you."

"And that's..." Mulder stopped when he realized what that was. He dipped his head to talk against the top of Joshua's head. "I thought you preferred...um--I hate trying to find the right words--the bottom?"

"Usually, but not all the time. One of most incredible aspects of sex between men is the ability to switch roles. You can keep stroking me by the way; I was enjoying that."

Mulder resumed manipulating Joshua under the water. Just discussing fucking him was getting the young man solid in a big hurry, not to mention the palpable stirring within himself. Perhaps there was still some youth left in him. "Well, I'll try anything once, but don't we need supplies?"

Joshua moaned and began to thrust into Mulder's hand. "Your call. I've tested clean for six years since my last male lover and there's plenty of bath oil."

"Am I going to smell like rosemary tomorrow?" he joked.

"God, I hope so."

Joshua sat up and pulled the drain. Mulder made to stand. "Sit," Joshua told him. "I'm just going to warm us up and lower the water table. I want you here, where I can see you."

Mulder gave him a strange, but acquiescing look and sat back in the water on his knees.

Joshua turned on the hot tap and reset the plug. "Listen. Not everyone goes for this. If it bothers you, let me know, okay?"

Mulder gave him a nervous grin. "Okay."

When the water had filled, Joshua took a folded towel down off the rack and dropped it into the water. "For your knees," he explained, and turning Mulder around, he began to touch and kiss his shoulders much like he did that first night on the piano bench.

"God, I love your back. Beautiful..." Mulder could feel Joshua's erection nudging against him as he gently bent him forward and over, giving him access to his ass. "Put a towel under your head," he suggested. "Get comfortable." Mulder took his advice and lay against the wide edge of the bath, settling his head in his arms upon a thick towel, closing his eyes.

Joshua began by pouring a few droplets of bath oil over his exposed back and ass, massaging it into his skin, kneading the muscles and tendons, releasing his tension, relaxing him. His chest was lying comfortably against the gentle sloping back of the tub. The fact he was half-submerged gave him an embryonic feel, like he was floating, secure. It was so quiet in the room, he nearly went to sleep while Joshua massaged him between his shoulder blades and down his spine, taking his time. He could hear the tap dripping and the gentle whoosh of water as Joshua moved behind him. He felt the violinist's fingers slide between the cheeks of his ass, rubbing oil from his anus to balls, giving the area a warm, slick, sensual coat. The slippery sensation of hands and fingers rolling over his balls, ass and cock, fingering, tugging gently, brought him back from twilight and into the first stages of arousal. All the while Joshua was murmuring softly to him against his skin, kissing him, telling him how beautiful his body was, how strong and masculine--exactly what he loved to fuck.

The musician leaned in, resting his aroused cock between the cheeks of his ass, beginning to thrust slowly, running the shaft past his anus, getting him used to the sensation of having some pressure and weight directed toward such a vulnerable and untested part of his body. It felt good and Mulder turned his head to the side to reward his lover with a low moan.

"I thought you might like this," Joshua whispered, his hands reaching under the water to flick over his flat nipples. "Are you ready for more?"

###

Seeing the man exposed and submissive before him was almost like a dream. Joshua felt he could spend hours running his hands over the long plane of Mulder's back, or the narrow firmness of the well-formed muscles of his ass and thighs. Joshua found himself in the grips of the strongest physical attraction he'd ever felt for another person. Mulder was beautiful in every way possible to him. He was so desperately amorous for him right now, after their long day together, he almost regretted not waiting longer until Mulder had a chance to sleep. He figured after this Mulder would most certainly be signing off for the night and Joshua could only imagine himself waking a few hours from now, naked against him in the bed, wanting more. There was something he hadn't told Mulder--that although he'd had lovers enter him, he himself hadn't had the pleasure of fucking a man since the night he lost his virginity when he was seventeen. He'd been waiting for this a long time.

Mulder seemed relaxed and ready for more, so he sat back and replaced the gentle friction over Mulder's tight puckered anus with the pad of his thumb, circling it over the muscle, easing it, then gently pressing in. Mulder responded well to that feeling, having experienced Joshua's fingers in previous nights. He loved touching Mulder this way, feeling him inside, pink and warm and beautiful--something that was impossible to describe to most men who tended to associate their assholes with foul and unclean imagery. Joshua had known men who would think nothing of fucking him deep and hard, but wouldn't allow that same vulnerable invitation to be offered from themselves. This was a rare treat indeed.

In a minute he exchanged his thumb for his index finger and slid in deep, letting his other hand take hold of Mulder's cock, stroking him slowly, from base to tip, careful not to oversensitize the head. He smiled when he felt the man under him begin to rock back into his probing, so he added another finger, sliding them in all the way and spreading them out on the retreat, stretching the tiny ring of muscle, teasing some give out of it. Bending his fingers, he found Mulder's prostate gland, massaging it gently, moaning a little along with Mulder as he felt his cock harden solid in his hand. 

###

Mulder felt two fingers become three, and although it was more than what he was used to feeling over the past few nights, Joshua's slow but steady pace kept him relaxed enough to not mind the extra pressure in his rectum, which had seemed impossibly tight at first but was now noticeably softer and more open. It wasn't half bad, this sliding, deep feeling, and the occasional motions against his prostate sent a shock of astounding arousal from deep in his groin through to the head of his penis. Mulder wondered why he had never pursued anal penetration with women or explored himself on his own for that matter. He supposed it was another of those cultural biases--to touch one's own ass in pleasure was somehow dirty, evil and wrong. What utter nonsense. Joshua was right about him, he needed to expand his thinking. He'd wasted nearly forty years not knowing this side of his sexuality. It felt almost like a rebirth.

"I'm going to try you now," Joshua said, slowly sliding his fingers out. "Tell me if it feels wrong." Mulder nodded, murmuring his assent and opened his heavy eyes. If he turned his head just right he could see Joshua kneeling back and lubricating his cock with oil. It was a gorgeous sight to see those hands at work. He seemed to be taking his time with it, taking some pleasure for himself. God, now watching a man masturbate himself was turning him on, what next? Well, he knew what next--if those Oxford boys could see him now.

"Are you watching me, Mulder?"

"Yeah."

"Good, because one of the hardest things to get used to as a man is not being able to see what's happening to you. We're visual creatures. Feeling without watching is foreign to us." He came back up and Mulder lost his glistening, erect organ from his line of sight. "I'll tell you what I'm doing." Mulder felt something against his anus and immediately tensed. "It's okay, that's my thumb again, relax."

Mulder closed his eyes and gave into the feel of being rubbed again around the anus; more oil was being spread. "You'll feel the head now." Something soft and big was pressing in next to Joshua's thumb as it slowly slid out. There was a moment of pure terror as he felt his anus resist and then suddenly give under the pressure and pop open and slip over like an elastic band. It didn't hurt, but the oddness of it made him clench. Joshua's hand was on his lower back, rubbing him. "It's okay, Mulder. I'm in, or the head is, anyway. The rest is easy. Tell me if I go too deep for you."

###

Watching the end of his cock slowly disappearing into this man was an undeniably erotic experience. As much as he wanted to thrust deeply into that incredibly tight clenching heat, he knew he had to go slow--in a little, then back a bit before pressing in again. He could feel the muscle ring squeezing him, holding onto him as he descended into bliss. He couldn't help but groan aloud at the sensation. Joshua had found it somewhat mentally frustrating to be so aroused these past several days without the psychological release of thrusting into someone. He needed this badly. "Does that feel okay?" he whispered, trying to hide how incredible this was feeling in case Mulder wanted to stop.

"I'm okay. How far are you?"

"Almost there. Let me try the whole thing," he said and slid steadily in until his balls rested against his lover's ass. God, that was nice. "Done." He rested his cock there, in him, waiting with all the patience he could muster for Mulder to tell him it was okay to move.

###

Joshua was waiting for him, asking him if he felt okay. Mulder wasn't sure...wasn't sure what he was feeling. It just felt odd. He felt fullness and pressure and something kind of good at the root of his balls. But the fact was, his brain wasn't used to registering these types of sensations in this part of his body. An erect cock was quite different from the touch of fingers. Being fully penetrated was setting off some natural alarm system in his brain, threatening to cancel this experiment that had thus far brought him a great deal of pleasurable anticipation. He supposed he thought it was going to feel immediately different, like what he imagined a woman feels. Except, he wasn't a woman. Joshua certainly felt something pretty intense when he fucked *him.* Why wasn't he feeling that? Was he missing something?

"Mulder?" Joshua was beginning to retreat.

"No. It's all right. My brain just got confused."

Joshua chuckled warmly, caressing his back and thighs some more, soothingly. "It will do that until you learn to associate these feelings with pleasure. We can try again some other time."

"Wait."

"Wait?"

"Go ahead and move; I want to feel you." They'd made it this far, after all.

"Okay, I'll start slowly."

Joshua sank back in until they met balls to ass again--then he took a tiny pull back, thrusting gently in a shallow increment. He felt Joshua lean back over him and take his confused penis in hand, stroking it in a familiar and stimulating way. Mulder soon discovered that as the pleasure rose in his cock, the sensations in his ass grew more favorable and comfortable--that nice little feeling near his balls was growing into a rising disassociated sensation, a warming tug that was definitely becoming a good thing, a really good thing.

"More," he whispered and Joshua was more than willing to oblige him.

###

Mulder was asking for more. That pleading tone in his deep throaty voice sent a rush of heat straight to Joshua's groin. Mulder was enjoying this; he wanted this, wanted him inside him, letting Joshua take his pleasure from him in such a vulnerable and giving way. The notion he was finally fucking Mulder was stimulating in the extreme--as stimulating as the unbearably tight sheath of his ass, hot and slick around him.

Joshua let go of Mulder's cock and came back up on his knees, holding the man's hips firmly so he could thrust more deeply, more satisfactorily. When Mulder responded with a rough and urgent groan, Joshua couldn't resist the instinct to move a little more vigorously, knowing he couldn't last like this for very long. It was too close, too good, too passionate. Water was kicking up and splashing over the edge of the tub from his efforts. He needed this too much to hold back from the deep pleasure gathering in his balls, drawing them up so tight he was beginning to ache from holding back.

###

"I'm sorry.... I've wanted this so much."

And that's when it occurred to Mulder, this was Joshua in him, about to come; this brilliant, attractive young man who had taken notice of him, who had shown him such kindness and understanding. It was Joshua who desired him, accepted him, who had taken him away from the dullness he'd been drowning in and reminded him of who he was inside, a tender and passionate man-- someone worthy of love, someone who could give love. This was about so much more than getting off in a strange and unusual way. This was about opening up and taking someone inside himself--opening up his soul.

These thoughts were bringing about deep waves of pleasure emanating from his pelvic area and sweeping over his entire body, not just the length of his cock. His heart rate was rising and he felt himself coming up off the edge of the tub, bracing himself, seeking more and more of that strange and beautiful pleasure taking possession of him. All the while Joshua was fucking him, steady and solid, building to his own peak, making soft unguarded sounds, thrusting faster and deeper, holding them together.

Mulder almost didn't recognize his own orgasm when it hit. It came from within, a crashing intense sensation--stronger and longer than anything he had ever experienced. He cried out, gripping the head of his penis, thrusting sharply, feeling his come rising and spurting hard through his fingers. He felt overpowered by it as it slowly retreated with Joshua's final, disjointed, shuddering thrusts, leaving him with a peaceful, sinking feeling of profound satisfaction, an exquisite emotional release unlike anything he had ever felt before. He felt rewarded, fulfilled--all he wanted to do was curl up and sleep. He slumped back heavily against the edge of the tub, softly moaning. Joshua was pressed up behind him, hugging him, kissing him feverishly, thanking him, as the escaped water pooled across the bathroom floor.

###

Joshua lay awake watching the fire whipping down. He had re-laid it after he and Mulder made it up out of the tub, both a little shaken and amazed, yet still somewhat shy about showing it to one another. Joshua sat him on the edge of the bed, drying his nodding head with a towel, before laying him down naked under the warm covers of the bed to a well-earned rest. It was well into the night now; it felt late. His lover was sound asleep spooned against him, his arm over his hip under the sheets. But Joshua couldn't sleep, not yet. Not while his chest was aching and his eyes burning from more than an errant wisp of smoldering firewood.

He knew this feeling that held him bitterly. The emotion was deep and profound. The whole day--the companionship, the wine, the kisses, the lovemaking--it was unmistakable, it rang through his very bones. And now that the night was passing so easily into dawn, he knew deep in his soul he was marked. It's a terrifying and wonderful moment when a man realizes he no longer belongs exclusively to himself. Now, in this room, in this bed, being held so closely, he wondered if any of himself remained at all. As much as he had wanted this day, he had been wholly unprepared for what it would bring him.

As close as they were, as close as they had become, the truth burned into his mind--there was no composition written in any key, in any century, by any composer for gun and violin. And neither was ever likely to set their instrument aside.

***************************

5:30 AM 

Joshua was woken from a heavy sleep by someone calling his name. He opened his eyes. It was nearly dawn. The sky outside the window was beginning to turn gray. Mulder was still pressed up behind him, breathing deeply and steadily. It wasn't him. Maybe he had been dreaming. He closed his eyes.

"Joshua..."

Joshua's bones went cold. He knew that voice. He opened his eyes and turned his head slowly. The room was dark, empty, but to his horror he realized the door was open, the dim light of the hall peering in. He struggled to sit up and in doing so looked back toward the fireplace. The Thin Man was standing at the hearth, smiling. He opened his tattered and filthy coat of felt to expose his distended and sickened stomach.

"I am swollen," he said.

His gray eyes were fixed on him as Joshua reached next to him to shake Mulder awake. Mulder didn't respond, just kept sleeping despite Joshua calling out his name. "Mulder, wake up! Wake up!"

Mulder stirred, and mumbled something.

Joshua tore his eyes away from the specter to look down at him. "Mulder, he's here!"

Mulder opened his eyes, struggling out of the depths of sleep. "Who's here?"

"The Thin Man! He's..." To his shock the Thin Man had vanished from the hearth. Joshua scanned the room with his eyes. There was a silhouette floating in the doorway. "He's at the door; can you see him?"

Mulder was sitting up now, blinking into the darkness. "Joshua? Why is the door open?"

"He's there in the doorway. He's turning now," Joshua whispered. "God, can't you see him?"

"No...Fuck! My weapon!" Mulder jumped out of bed to his feet, grabbing his pants and pulling them on. "Shit, where's Andy? I thought he was watching the door."

"He's gone now. Didn't you see him? I think he moved up the hall."

"Who, Joshua?"

"The Thin Man, Mulder--he was in our room!"

"Look, stay right there; don't leave the room. I'm going next door to get my weapon and have a look around, okay?"

Joshua pulled the sheet over his legs. He was shaking. "Okay."

###

Mulder quickly checked the closets and the bathroom before locking Joshua in the room and heading next door to knock on Andy's door. The door pushed open with the pressure of his knuckles. Inside, the room was lit, but empty. "Andy?" There was no answer.

Mulder found his gun resting on a table next to an opened bottle of Cabernay. He unholstered it, checking to make sure it was still ready to fire. It was. If his guess was right, the Thin Man was announcing the next attack, which could come from anywhere at any minute--possibly from Andy, who was missing from his post. Mulder inspected the room quickly, anxious to get back to Joshua. His worst fears were realized when he found a scrap of hotel stationery crumpled on the floor. There was writing on it: "The soldiers are coming."

"Mulder...!" He heard Joshua yell from the room next door and he ran out of Andy's room and back to theirs. The door was thrown open. Andy was standing at the foot of the bed. Fuck! He hadn't been gone more than fifteen seconds. Andy's revolver was drawn, pointed at Joshua's chest where he sat naked on the bed.

"Drop your weapon!" Mulder shouted. But the security guard didn't acknowledge him; he had a glassy look to his eyes, a stillness. His attention was focused only on Joshua.

"Joshua, listen to me," Mulder said, stepping stealthily toward the armed man. "When I say 'Go,' I want you to dive for the floor and under the bed as fast as you can."

Joshua gave a solemn nod. Mulder took another step and said, "Go."

Joshua moved and Mulder fired his weapon. In the same second he heard Andy's revolver turn, load and connect, blasting past where Joshua had been sitting, breaking a chunk of plaster from the wall. Andy was on the ground holding his shoulder and squirming from where Mulder had shot him in the upper arm, throwing off his aim and making him drop the weapon. Joshua crawled forward from beneath the fallen bedclothes to grab the pistol and hold it nervously on Andy.

"Joshua, don't point that thing unless you know how to use it," Mulder snapped, holding Andy down with his knee while he looked for something to tie his hands with. His handcuffs were conveniently back in the trunk of the car--perfect. He ordered Andy to put his arms behind his back, which the now visibly shaken and confused man did, as Mulder bound his wrists with a telephone cord.

"Joshua, I want you to get on this phone, if it's still working, and call hotel security. Now!" 

****************************************

St. Helena Hospital   
9:58 AM

Andy was safely admitted to the St. Helena Hospital where the bullet wound was explored, bound and dressed. He was going to be fine, but still had no reasonable explanation for why he was found standing over Joshua with his weapon in his hand, or why he failed to respond to Mulder's shout to drop it.

It was pissing rain when the rental company pulled up with a sedan to take Mulder and Joshua, and Joshua's spending spree packed in the trunk, back to San Francisco. Mulder had been delayed for almost two hours at the hospital answering questions and filling out paperwork. Joshua had little to do but pace around the visitor's seating area watching the rain beat against the windows. It was a good thing they were in a hospital, considering the level of anxiety he was experiencing. One look at his lover's face, post-shooting, and he knew things had made a turn for the worse. That self-sacrificing stubbornness and determination he so admired in Mulder was about to come crashing down on him. Mulder hadn't so much as asked him if he was okay since they left the scene. Joshua was shaking in his woolen coat and stomped his legs to try and gain an edge over it. He was being avoided. Fuck, he hated this feeling.

Eventually Mulder made an appearance, holding a set of keys. "Come on. We're outta here."

###

In the car, Mulder kept a steely watch on the narrow valley freeway, navigating through the traffic and downpour. The windshield wipers were swishing aside a cascading sheet of water with an audible whoosh-whoosh. Joshua sat huddled in his coat, miserable at Mulder's silence.

"Can we talk about this?" he finally asked when the stress of waiting had reached an unbearable level.

"What's to discuss? I think it's obvious...some changes are going to be made."

Joshua shifted his legs, crossing one over the other, trying to brace himself. "What changes?"

"I can't even begin to tell you how furious I am with myself," Mulder announced suddenly. "This stupidity on my part ends now."

Joshua folded his arms across his chest, hugging himself, trying to stay calm. "Mulder, I understand. But that doesn't mean we can't..."

"Dammit, Joshua. That's exactly what this means," the agent said, slapping the steering wheel with his palm. "I can't protect you if I'm fucking you. I think we proved that today. I'm sorry," he said, bringing some calm back into his voice, "but continuing to risk your life is not an option."

Joshua swallowed an angry retort and looked away out his window at the valley. Its once-brilliant colors were dulled and smeared by sheets of rain. This place had been a paradise to him not 12 hours earlier. He couldn't believe this was happening. Why was he being punished like this? "I don't think you realize how much I care about what happens with us," he said thickly.

Mulder's fingers tapped the steering wheel and he heard the agent sigh heavily. "Joshua..."

"Don't," he said, stopping him. He could hear the beginnings of the 'this is the end' tone in the agent's voice. He ground his foot into the floor of the car to keep himself from coming apart. Two hours was a long time to wait to scream. 

***************************************

He didn't scream. Instead, he dumped his packages unceremoniously onto the floor near the kitchen bar and made straight over to the violin, shouldering it and playing vigorously every late-twentieth century discordant ugliness he could recall. They were abstract and sharp tones that reflected the broken and tousled contents of his chest. He was much too angry for tears.

Mulder was standing near his front door on the phone, trying to reach Dillmont, but instead arranged for another agent from the SF office to head over. Then he called his partner, telling her he'd be right over. Joshua knew it was only business, but that call hurt him almost more than Mulder's conversation or lack thereof in the car.

Joshua played loudly and harshly, whipping the bow, as Mulder sat near the door in the chair Dillmont usually occupied until the bell rang. A strange agent arrived, armed, female, young. Joshua ignored her attempt to call out an introduction to him.

"He's a little upset," he heard Mulder mutter.

"Goddamn right, the violinist's upset!" Joshua snapped, sliding his violin back in the case with a 'tonk.' "I'll be in the only place a person can find any privacy in this room," he said with mocking calmness and headed toward the bathroom, shedding his shirt as he went.

Ten minutes later, pelted with hot spray and half covered in soap, he sank along the tile wall of his shower, brought to his knees by hard, choking sobs.

*********************************

Chapter Fifteen: Brahms and Betrayal

*********************************

Marriott Hotel   
1:02 PM

Mulder stripped down and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water spray over him, running down the curve of his back to his tailbone. His ass was still aching slightly from last night's experiences, as if he was still being penetrated--a sensual twinge that pulled at his mind. He was hard again, wanting more again, and he took himself fast and quickly, coming against the tile, trying to clear himself of the crushing feeling so he could focus again. He didn't have the luxury of long sultry afternoons to sort through his conflicting emotions. He had a job to do, and right now he was acutely aware of how much he had jeopardized that position. He rinsed himself and hurried out of the shower to dress.

The bed was still made, and on top of it were the carefully arranged scraps of the message. It was still trying to speak to him, Mulder felt--its random voice perhaps not all that random. He stopped buttoning his shirt to take up a fresh sheet of Marriott stationery. "You must hear us..." he wrote and tore the words loose, adding them to the arrangement. These people, or this person, wanted Joshua to stop fleeing the messenger and try to understand what was struggling to be communicated to him. It shouldn't take much to make the message clear, but the final words were just not coming forward. Hopefully, the new papers and letters they had gathered would bring the whole conundrum into focus.

Mulder finished dressing and made to leave. On the chair near him was the book Joshua had bought him--the embossed image of Johannes Brahms gazed kindly back at him like a loving patriarch. He wondered what Joshua was doing right now, sleeping? eating? seething? He hated that their affair had to end so abruptly. It was going to be difficult not spending the evenings with him. Mulder put on his coat and tugged at the latch on his door. He paused, turning to look at the book. Impulsively, he picked it up, tucking its solid weight under his arm as he exited the room.

###

Scully was waiting for him in the hotel's restaurant for lunch. Lunch was her idea. He wondered if it meant anything.

"Is Joshua all right?" she asked as he joined her at her table, setting his coat with the book hidden in it on the ledge next to him.

All right?

"Yeah, he's fine," Mulder answered bluntly, setting his napkin on his lap and picking up the menu. It was an accurate assessment. The man wasn't bleeding, at least not on the outside. The menu's words blurred; he was feeling anything but hungry right now.

"Are *you* all right?" she asked next, gently pressing. His chest caught. Did she know? Was it obvious? The police report put him in Joshua's room last night--she'd read that for certain. But then, that was his assigned post. Who's to say he didn't pass the night sitting up in an armchair?

"Yeah, I'll be okay. I'm just not pleased with myself. I made a very stupid error last night."

Scully eyed him carefully; she looked worried. She was waiting for him to close the menu and elaborate. He let the meaningless entrees skim by his view before he just set the menu down. "I've been completely wrong about how the Thin Man chooses his handpuppets. I made the wrong connections. I thought we were looking for weak-minded people. Your autopsy must have been more accurate than we both thought. There was nothing wrong with the valet--just as there was nothing unusual about the state of mind of Andy Parsons."

"Until he inexplicably felt the urge to point his weapon at Joshua," Scully added.

Mulder fingered the edge of his origami napkin. "Yeah. It doesn't figure to me at all." He looked her in the eye, his voice like steel. "I swear to God, Scully, he was aiming to kill. And I all but placed the gun in his hand."

Scully reached out and touched his wrist in reassurance. "You couldn't have known Andy would be dangerous. It was Joshua who asked him to bring the weapon, Mulder."

The waiter made his way to their table and Scully ordered the club sandwich. Mulder did the same, too disinterested in the meal to choose for himself.

"There's something else, Scully."

Her expression changed abruptly--it almost appeared as if she flinched. "What?" she asked.

Mulder was, for the moment, startled. She did seem to be avoiding something. Their working conversations always ran like this, dancing around the more important unspoken issues at hand. She had seen them together in Joshua's room, and now that Sonoma was a complete bust.....It didn't take a finely-honed investigator to make the numbers add up. Mulder continued with the case facts.

"When I interviewed Andy Parsons in the hospital, he told me he'd never seen or heard of anyone matching the description of the Thin Man."

Her posture eased. "Did he have an answer as to why he wrote, 'The soldiers are coming,' on hotel stationery?"

"He had no memory of writing the words; although he did identify the writing as his. After some time he told me he'd been dreaming about soldiers marching up a snow-covered road splattered with blood."

"What do you think it means?"

"I'm not sure, but I have an afternoon visit planned to the offices of the Ukraine Liberator."

"More translations?"

Mulder toyed with his flatware, lining them up more evenly. "Yes, but more importantly, I want a translation of the events that might be making themselves known through the peculiarities of this case."

"You're still looking for connections to the famine?" she assessed.

"I think history might be trying to repeat itself," he said, and took a long swallow of ice water. 

****************************

Marina Flat   
2:30 PM 

Joshua woke in the late afternoon. He laid on his stomach in his bed with his eyes closed, trying to keep his gathering mind from the temptation of replaying yesterday's memories. He didn't want to remember what it had felt like to be completely happy. Instead, he tried to focus on the emptiness he felt, the emotional exhaustion hollowing out his chest. There was nothing inside him, no more anger or frustration. He was sick of crying himself to sleep. Perhaps his lover had been right; there was something to be said for feeling numb.

There were heeled footsteps on his hardwood floor. He opened his eyes and rolled his head to look. The young female agent with the polished black sidearm was strolling near his windows. It was always a surprise to wake and see who was occupying his space, taking possession of it as if they were an invited guest. They weren't. In fact, he'd had quite enough of being "entertained" by the FBI.

Joshua sat up in his bed and rubbed his hands over his eyes. The agent glanced his way and smiled politely.

"Look," Joshua said through his hands. "No offense, but would you mind honoring a private citizen's request to be allowed privacy in his own home?"

She looked confusedly at him. "I can step outside if you'd like."

"I'd like it if you just left."

"I'll have to put a call in to Agent Mulder..."

Joshua groaned. "No. Look. Please just leave. I need to be alone. Completely alone. You can understand that, right?"

"I'll need to check in first."

Joshua threw his sheets back and stood up, wearing only a pair of undershorts. He made his way over to his kitchen bar to lift the wall phone off the hook. "What's the number?"

Joshua dialed 411 when he didn't get an answer from her. "Yes. Hello, I'd like the number for the FBI San Francisco Field Office. Thank you. Please put me through.....Hello? Good afternoon. This is Joshua Segulyev speaking......Yes, the concert violinist. I'm, as of 2:30 this afternoon, calling off my assigned FBI protection.....I know you don't know what I'm talking about, but leave a note for Agent Mulder. Tell him...tell him I've had enough."

Joshua hung up the phone in time to see the agent on her cell, trying to get through to someone in charge of this ridiculous situation. Joshua stepped past her and opened his front door wide, inviting her to leave. She was still on hold when he closed and dead bolted the door after her.

Alone again at last. 

**************************

The Offices of the Ukraine Liberator   
424 Harrison St.   
3:22 PM

Johannes Brahms sat patiently in Mulder's lap as he waited in a musty threadbare chair at the foot of a narrow staircase which lead up to the Liberator's main office. Mulder's forefinger idly traced the contours of the composer's long beard on the cover. Brahms' proud romantic themes had become the symbolic representation of Joshua's bond to his grandfather. Mulder wondered what it was like to be so connected to another person that you felt inspired to honor them through art. Joshua's landmark recording of the Brahms Concerto would remain preserved in digital audio on the back of a CD, or whatever media lay in the future, forever. This was perhaps why artists were determined to struggle so much. Brahms, Beethoven, Bach--all these men had neighbors, servants, cousins, maybe even wives and children that time had all forgotten. The rewards of sacrificing one's life to art was the diamond-solid trophy of immortality. Joshua, in the interests of preserving those awards, had made himself their proxy, one that would never be forgotten for his services.

"Agent Mulder?"

The gruff low voice of Leo Petrovsky shook him from his musings. Mulder slipped the book into the packed evidence satchel he'd hauled in with him and stood to ascend and greet the stocky man again.

"You have more translations?" the Liberator's editor asked, returning his handshake.

"Yes, but more than just words and letters. I need someone who understands the heart and soul of Ukraine."

Mulder followed Leo through the dim crowded office that overlooked the busy 101 freeway overpass and its occupation of homeless and addicts within the dark concrete columns. Mulder passed a set of plain brown cubicles stuffed with three or four journalists and copyeditors speaking in foreign tongues, before he and Leo entered a private office at the back of the rented space.

Petrovsky's office was cluttered with clippings, newspapers, posters, binders, broken pencils and wrinkled printouts. Leo lifted a stack of unopened mail from a chair and offered the seat to Mulder, while he took a seat behind the long desk, vanishing under a load of paperwork. Petrovsky laid his thick arms on the center of the desk and cleared a space like a child starting a snow angel. Excess clutter slipped off onto the floor and a nearby light table in a manila avalanche.

"There, now you are welcome to my office," he said. Behind him was an outdated ceiling-to-floor poster that read "Free Ukraine" in large spray-stenciled block letters.

"I'm here again because I'm still working this case, that quite frankly, has me stumped," Mulder said, laying out the new evidence from Joshua's grandfather's home. "I'm working with a Russian/Jewish violinist of Ukrainian origin who we believe is cursed, or being threatened by someone who would like him to believe he's cursed."

Leo fingered the old letter and document Mulder had set before him. He paused at the certificate.

"You have another birth announcement," he said, reading it aloud. "This document sanctifies and consecrates the Christian birth and baptism of Ivan Segulyev, son of Dimitri and Irina Segulyev, 1912, in St. Sophia's Holy Catholic Church, Chutove, Poltava Province. May the blood of Christ protect this child." Petrovsky pushed the document back toward Mulder. "This is one of the men in the photo with the thresher you showed me the other day."

"Yes, it is," Mulder admitted. "It's also my witness' grandfather, who, to the best of my knowledge, defected to the US during the 1933 famine. I'm hoping this new letter will shed some light on that history," Mulder said, touching the letter from Alexander Kosynakov. "The author of this letter has been sending written threats to my witness for the past eight months. His name appears on both the synagogue birth document and the register we brought you earlier. By his handwriting, he also appears to be the farmer who kept the log at the start of the famine."

Leo took the letter from him and opened a drawer, producing a pair of petite reading glasses. He perched them at the end of his nose, making his large head seem even larger. "That is not likely," he said simply, beginning to read the letter.

Mulder was lost. "Why do you say so? We've had the handwriting analyzed. It's a fact."

Leo grunted. "Perhaps it is a fact to your analyst, but not to someone who knows 1930s Ukraine. Jews were forbidden to own land. Kosynakov could not have been a landlord, or 'Kulak' as the Soviets liked to falsely label them. The word literally means "fist"--someone who lends money to others, holds them in their debt. They used the scapegoat term to accuse and send millions of successful capitalist-minded farmers and their families off to struggle for life in Siberia. When I read the farming log, I could tell this landowner was a good man, responsible for a small hamlet of families. From his first recorded harvest it seemed to me that he had been prosperous. Individual prosperity was like a sickness to the communist revolution..." he paused as he read the letter.

"The man who writes this... He is making a statement to his workers, or tenant farmers of his hamlet. He is stating that he is leaving the 'savings' in the care of his 'brother.' It is not the real blood-term for brother that he uses, but one that means 'alike in spirit.' He says that the GPU--the secret police--will be coming for him. They do not care anymore that his father was a war hero. He says that the land they awarded his father for his valor in the civil war between the Reds and the Whites is condemning him, that he is to be made an example of. He hopes to...this is confusing to me...he is asking that the tenants pretend to believe in him as a false man...wait! Oh, I see. He is disguising himself and hoping that when he reaches Kiev for labor assignment he will be returned once he has proven he is only a common peasant."

Leo paused and rubbed the side of his nose, thoughtfully. "He signs it by his false name, Alexander Kosynakov."

"So this landowner..." Mulder started to say, thinking it through, "...falsified his identity in order to fool the officials in charge of relocating him to Siberia into letting him go?"

"It would seem so. Soviet authorities at that time had a random criteria for crushing the peasants. One week, being the son of a soldier could help you; the next, make you a target. People kept birth certificates on them at all times, trading them when being higher or lower born was to their advantage...let me show you something," Leo said, reaching behind him for a large book on the floor next to his computer desk. He lifted it and set it down over the evidence with a thud. He opened it facing Mulder, and flipped past page after page of preserved newspaper clippings, yellowed with age. The images that flipped by were horrible to see: men, women, children and animals, bone-thin and dying. Piles of bodies and mass graves flipped by as Petrovsky found the page he was seeking. "Here," he said. "These were reports from Poltava Province taken by Red Cross volunteers in 1934 when the Soviet government finally allowed for relief efforts. The statistics are sobering," he said, pointing to a box at the bottom of the page. "Nearly two-thirds of the people living in this province were missing, forcibly relocated, dead, or dying. Chutove, the village your witness' grandfather came from, was left abandoned."

"Wait..." Mulder said, leaning forward and touching the page in front of him. At the top was a photo of Red Cross workers feeding a line of emaciated orphaned children. One girl had a bow in her hair that looked familiar to him. Mulder dug through his satchel for the lock box photos and set them next to the bound clippings on the desk. The sepia image of the young girl found in Nanette's office, once so pretty with pearls around her neck, was the same girl in the newspaper photo, only older and sunken as she swallowed what the Red Cross could deliver in the form of salvation.

"Nanette," he breathed.

"Who?"

Before he could explain, Mulder's cell rang. He answered it quickly. It was the new agent filling in for Dillmont's shift, calling to inform him that Joshua had kicked her out, electing to refuse protection. Dammit, Joshua *was* more than determined to get himself killed.

"Can you just keep an eye on him?" he asked. "Trail him; see where he goes, if he goes anywhere. I'm in the middle of something right now, but I'll try to talk some sense into him later." She agreed and beeped off. Mulder sighed and slid his phone back into his pocket.

"This girl," Mulder said, pointing to both photos. "She was the last survivor from Chutove."

"You know her?" Leo asked, unbelieving.

"Yes. I'm certain it's her. She's a part of this case. Some of these documents and photos were found in her home."

"If it is her, I would ask you to invite her to meet me for an interview. I could help her and her remaining family, if she has one...there are charities..."

Mulder remembered something. "Are you familiar with the Recovery Foundation of Poltava Province?"

"Yes, I have heard of them. They do good work for terror-famine survivors still living in Ukraine," Petrovsky said, closing his book and removing it from the desk so he could see the evidence again.

Mulder nodded his head, thoughtfully. "There's one more translation I need from you," he said, reaching down and lifting out a plastic evidence bag containing the charred bone fragment. "A message from the dead."

Petrovsky took the bag in his hands gently, turning the bone over inside the plastic so he could read it. He set his glasses up higher on his nose. "It says, 'May he who bears my name and all those who follow in blood be bereft of gifts or of giving.'"

"Is it a curse?" Mulder asked.

"It could be. Many Ukraine peasants at that time still practiced forms of pagan ritual. Did you find this wrapped with a dead bird?"

Mulder felt elated. "Yes, we did."

Leo mulled the thought over in his mind. "I have heard of an old pagan ceremony that passes a final wish along from the dead to the living. As the deceased's body lies on a pyre, certain incantations are recited. When the fire dies, a living relative must inscribe the message on a remnant of his or her body."

"This case I'm investigating, the witness has been attacked by assailants who appear to be possessed by a spirit from beyond the grave."

Leo shrugged, setting the bag and bone down. "I cannot account for the acts of the living. It is only a tradition. It means nothing to me. Perhaps it means something to your witness?"

"'...he who bears my name and all those who follow in blood...'" Mulder repeated. "It sounds like he was cursing his own family. Why would he want to do that...unless..." The image of Brahms flashed into his mind and Mulder reached into the satchel for the book of composers, tapping the cover. The pieces all began to slide into place, rapidly. The message they had been reading, written across cell walls and cardboard and paper, 'your name is not your own...we were sacrificed for you...see where you came from...'

'...your name is not your own...'

Mulder glanced up at Petrovsky, whose eyes were wide with expectation. "I need a sheet of paper and a pencil," he told the editor. Leo rifled around his mess, producing both. Mulder laid the paper over the book's cover art, and with the flat edge of the pencil, took a rubbing of Brahms' long beard. "I need your copy machine and light table," he said next, getting to his feet.

Petrovsky set the rubbing on the copier just outside his office door and Mulder instructed him to reduce it to 25%. Then he made a 125% enlargement of the farm photo of the two men. Copies in hand, Mulder assisted Petrovsky in clearing the clutter from the light table near his desk. On the illuminated surface, Mulder set the farm photocopy and then slid the beard over the face of one man and then the next.

From the nose-up both men were virtually identical.

"It's what I suspected," Mulder said. "You can lose your name, but you can't lose your faith, and Alexander Kosynakov knew this was true."

***********************************

San Francisco   
Museum of Modern Art   
5:15 PM

The museum was getting ready to close for the evening and Mulder had to argue with the security guard for several minutes before he was allowed to enter and start up the white and black tiled staircase to the exhibit halls.

The agent tailing Joshua told Mulder he was here, somewhere among the scribbles and blotched colors of modern two-dimensional art expression. Mulder stopped at the second floor and stepped into the gallery, easing his way around onlookers as they tried to catch a last glimpse of Warhol or Dali before the 5:30 closing time.

He found his abandoned lover standing at the end of a long viewing room, surrounded by onlookers strolling by slowly or seated at benches. All of them were staring at a questionable piece of artistic merit mounted on the far wall.

As if he had sensed Mulder's arrival, Joshua's gaze broke from the painting and fell on him. The violinist's dark eyes tracked over him once, from head to foot, and flicked away with indifference, his attention once more focused on the painting. Mulder found the slight to be just on the edge of insolent. He should have known Joshua was not the type of man to be refused--he commanded an audience by nature and wasn't accustomed to being ignored.

Mulder squared himself and cleared the distance to stand beside him.

"I'm surprised, Mulder. I didn't know you had an appreciation for Klee," Joshua said with a hint of mockery in his once welcoming voice.

It was irritating to be suddenly so ill-regarded. "I don't," Mulder said. "To me it's just a smudge of paint."

"It's not an image that you're supposed to see--it's more of a feeling--an impression spoken in simple color--orange, blue, surrounded by black. You look at it and although it might not be clear, you get a feeling for what it's trying to say."

"That must be the artist in you, Joshua, because I can't see anything but a waste of wallspace."

"Keep watching. It takes time to see."

"I'm afraid I don't have that kind of time right now. I need to speak to you."

"I'm sorry, Mulder," he said, almost bored. "I'm looking at art right now."

"The museum's closing. I'll wait for you outside."

###

5:38 PM

Joshua was the second-to-the-last person to leave the museum before they closed and bolted the doors. The floodlights came on, lighting the museum's lipstick-tip-shaped skylight from within like a giant black and white seeing eye.

He nodded once to Mulder and crossed 3rd Street to head into Yerba Buena Gardens city park. Mulder followed patiently as Joshua kept a few paces ahead of him, stalling the inevitable. This time, Mulder's reach for the musician's elbow made contact and Joshua whipped around to face him, drawing his arm away.

"Joshua," Mulder said with frustrated sympathy, "I wish you could realize that I never intended to hurt you. I'm only trying to do what's right to protect you."

Joshua's eyes reflected his hurt and doubt. He folded his arms and rocked on his heels like a marathon runner anticipating the gun. "No, Mulder, I was rather under the impression I'd been *dumped*."

Mulder was at a loss at how to proceed. He took a deep breath, trying to find a way to be firm, but honest. "It's not for lack of wanting, Joshua. This is about keeping you safe. This is about my responsibility to you. It surprises me now little you seem to fear for your own life."

Joshua's reply was strangely defensive. "What makes you think I'm not afraid?"

"Because you're refusing protection and wandering about the city without a shred of defense. You refuse to wear a vest despite all our recommendations..."

"I don't see where the FBI's recommendations have done a hell of a lot to protect me lately. I'm strongly considering acquiring a gun. I may be a lousy shot, but it beats living like a walking target."

Mulder held his tongue. Joshua had a point and he knew it. If Mulder could blame himself for incompetence, so could Joshua--even if it was out of spite. "I'm not here to pick a fight with you. I've made a major break in your case, if you care to hear about it."

Joshua pouted indignantly as he thought it over, staring at the cascading fountain wall behind them. Presently, curiosity won over anger and he nodded for Mulder to proceed.

"I found out that in 1986 Nanette sent a package containing a Ukrainian pagan curse to your grandfather. Scully and I found it in his trunk, inscribed on a human jawbone along with a letter. He had kept it there in your old home, hidden."

Joshua seemed quite disturbed by this. "What did the curse say?"

"That any family bearing the Segulyev name would be cursed--that you would be bereft of 'gifts or of giving.'"

The vestiges of anger fled Joshua's demeanor and he relaxed his enforced arrogance. It seemed he did still feel the need to be protected. "Then why was my father cursed?"

"I don't think the bad luck so much fell on him as it did your mother."

Joshua looked like he was trying to make it all add up. "She said she wasn't in control of her life. Papa was. I suppose it made sense that his farm was never successful. It ruined him and in turn, ruined her." He eyes narrowed and he looked to Mulder. "Why Nanette? How do you know it was her who sent the curse?"

"Because according to pagan tradition, a living relative of the deceased must pass their message on to the living, completing the workings of the ritual. It has to be her, Joshua; she lived with this man, the Thin Man, on his farm with her mother and aunt. He was her uncle by marriage. After the famine, when help arrived, he must have been returned from forced labor in Siberia. When he saw everyone was dead and gone, he felt the need to curse the only member of his extended family who'd escaped."

"Nanette?" Joshua asked, confounded.

"No, she survived by sheer will. I saw a photo of her, a child clinging to life. She survived. It was your grandfather who escaped, along with your infant mother."

"But...who was my grandfather to this man? A brother?"

"No, I think he was a close friend who helped work the land with him, a serf."

Joshua blinked a few times, thinking. "I hate myself for admitting this, but I've felt for a long time that Nanette hasn't been completely honest with me. In the field office she told me she had arrived in America 'filled with bitterness' toward my grandfather. I suppose she was jealous he had made it away from that godawful place."

"I think Nanette has held the key to this mystery for a very long time. We should both go talk to her."

Joshua looked uneasy. "I wish we could. She's left town."

"What?"

Joshua looked saddened. "I went over to her home this afternoon. She's gone--cleared out. I guess she's been more guilty for what's happened to me than she's let on. If she's the one responsible for activating this curse, then I can understand why the letters upset her so much. She didn't bargain that they'd come after me...my God...all this did begin just after my father's death, didn't it?"

Mulder nodded his solemn agreement. "That would seem to be the pattern--the sins of one generation passing to the next."

Joshua shrugged. "I don't follow. Whose sins? My father's?"

Mulder shook his head slowly, wondering if now was the best time. He needed Joshua's trust if he was going to be able to help him understand. "There's something else, Joshua. And I don't know how you're going to take it."

"What?" he asked quietly.

"I believe Nanette was trying to stop the curse herself. She was paying back an old debt with your mortgage money, trying to appease the spirits of the dead, only it didn't work."

"She said something to me about paying 'them' back. I didn't understand what she meant. What debt?"

"There was a letter with the curse from a man who traded identities with your grandfather in order to try and fool the Soviet officers who came to take him off to Siberia. Only his ruse failed on both accounts."

"What do you mean?"

"Where the Thin Man gained a new identity, so did your grandfather--one that he used to escape and has kept himself hidden behind even in death, until now."

"I don't follow..."

"Your grandfather's birth name was Alexander Kosynakov, a poor Jewish serf who worked for Nanette's uncle, who in turn was born to land-owning Catholic parents under the name Ivan Segulyev. Some point after your grandfather became Ivan, he stole the $60,000 village treasury and bribed his way to freedom, leaving his countrymen to die of starvation in their homeland. The money was intended to bargain for food and he took it under his false identity in order to save himself and your mother."

Joshua stood with his mouth slightly open, trying to gather in what Mulder had just told him. He didn't speak for several long moments, and Mulder wondered if it bore repeating.

"How, in God's name, did you manage to draw that conclusion?" Joshua finally said with some effort.

"It's all in the evidence. I can show you piece for piece how it all fits together. The switched identity had me thrown for a while, but the handwriting has remained constant. The Thin Man, Ivan Segulyev, is cursing the man who stole his name, his daughter who was named Segulyev from birth, and finally, you, the grandson who chose to keep his grandfather's name. 'Your name is not your own...' the writings have said, 'see what you will not see.' You are not the grandson of a Russian immigrant. By Alexander's birth record you are, on your Mother's side, Ukrainian." Joshua held up his hand as if to halt him. "I want you to stop and think for a minute about what it is you're trying to say to me."

Mulder squinted into the late afternoon sun. "I believe, Joshua, that your grandfather betrayed his countrymen. It's these spirits--this man Ivan, who died in 1933 of starvation, who wants you to understand what I'm saying, to accept it. 'See what you will not see.' I'm sorry, but they want you to understand your grandfather wasn't all what he seemed."

When Joshua spoke his voice was controlled and cold. "That man, Ivan or Alexander, or whatever his name was, I don't care...my grandfather did everything for me--*everything*. He took care of me; he loved me; he gave me music; he taught me what is sacred in this world; and he saved my hands, Mulder, so I could be a violinist. I owe him my life and I wasn't here for him when he lost his. I will *never* forgive myself for that. Not ever. Don't stand there as my friend and tell me I need to see him for who he was because I *did.* He was a man of God, and you and the rest of the world living or dead can go to hell for saying otherwise."

"I'm only trying to help you."

"Are you?" he asked bitterly, his voice continuing to rise in anger. "So far all you've done for me is to try to lay the blame on everyone I've ever loved."

"That's not true, Joshua."

"Yes you have! Elise, Nana, my grandfather--where does it end? You've run down the short list of people who have ever cared for me. I won't flatter myself into thinking you'll blame yourself next." Joshua turned his back on him and began to walk briskly away.

Mulder called after him to stop.

Joshua spun around once, his dark eyes reflecting betrayal. "Just follow your own advice, Mulder, and leave me the hell alone."

Helpless to prevent him from leaving, Mulder watched Joshua cross the park and disappear into the public traffic of Mission Street.

************************

Marina Flat   
7:04 PM

When Joshua reentered his apartment it was dark. He'd been out walking in the city evening, wandering like he had wandered that late afternoon from Davies Hall not over a week ago. He was punishing himself again, or maybe in reality, trolling for danger. All he knew was that he wanted free of the stagnation he was feeling, as if his legs were trapped in ice. He was threatened and yet no one could protect him; he had become as deeply moved by love as he had ever known in his life, and yet he was shut off from the object of his desire. He had faced him today knowing he no longer belonged to him, and most likely never did. Joshua felt older, used up--while all along his career was fading. Soon, no one would remember who he was or what he had wanted to accomplish in life. All he had ever wanted was to feel loved, and the only person to ever make him feel that way was now outrageously accused of being the origin for the threats on his life.

Joshua crossed the darkness to the violin. It was waiting, lying in repose on the back of the piano. He lifted the slight instrument and it nestled close as he pulled the bow over the strings. At once, music filled the vacuum in his soul and coated over the newly cut wounds. What he chose to play was sad, yet moving--a Brahms' sonata in major--a happier key, yet written with such solitude, it moved deeper for its attempt at joy. Often, in a long minor passage, a composer will turn to major for a few bars to carry the emotions farther. An idea occurred to Joshua and he switched over to play the Mendelssohn cadenza. It was in E-minor, but adding an augmentation to major, here, right here, changed the meaning.

Joshua paused, setting the violin down, thinking. He had a performance tomorrow night and the next, the last two shows at Davies, and then he'd be on to Southern California. He wanted to advance himself in some way, to leave this city with a gift its citizens would all remember. Joshua went to his shelving and opened a bottom drawer, fishing around for ledger paper. He found an old unused pad and took up a fist full of sharpened pencils. He clicked on the halogen light, casting an eerie glow over the piano's sleek black coat. He sat at the bench and flipped open the key cover, playing the first several bars of the cadenza. The piano came more slowly to him, but it allowed his mind to grab any note easily, finger by finger. He struck an F-major chord and after a few exploratory notes, paused for a pencil and scribbled the phrase across the ledger lines on the blank music paper, filling it with notes, with life. 

*********************************

Chapter Sixteen: Lies

*********************************

Marriott Hotel   
8:45 PM

It was forty-five minutes past his watch. Only tonight, Mulder wasn't watching anything, not even TV. Alone in his hotel room for the first decent hour in a week, Mulder lay back on the bedcovers, staring at the ceiling. The carefully arranged message phrases were stacked neatly on the bedside table near him next to an unopened pack of sunflower seeds. He'd lost his taste for this case, the search--even the seeds failed to interest him. The zest he once held for his job was languishing. The revival he had felt the last few days and nights was all but snuffed out. Depression and a sense of aimlessness covered him like a thin stale hotel blanket. He felt cold again, yet didn't have the interest to get up and shower. Instead, he let his eyes trace the hairline cracks in the ceiling. He'd order in dinner, but the thought of sucking down tepid noodles was nauseating to him.

He missed Joshua, terribly--more than he had thought possible. His whole body hurt with missing him. He'd close his eyes, but the inviting image of Joshua lying back naked before him would materialize in his mind's eye. He missed everything about him: the smell of his hair and skin, the color of his dark blue eyes when they were regarding him thoughtfully, the way he sometimes snored softly if he was sleeping on his back. Mulder missed his laugh, his conversation, his incredible back massages, and God help him, he even missed his cock--the way the head grew taut and reddish when aroused. He missed the sounds Joshua made when he kissed him, but most of all, he missed the sound of the violin. The company of music followed Joshua everywhere he went, welcoming those who were close to him. Mulder tried to remember how peaceful it had felt listening to Joshua sitting at the end of the bed after they'd made love, playing the violin into the darkness of the flat.

The silence was getting to him, but he knew he'd have to admit defeat, reassimilate into his previous existence, by turning on the TV--so he picked up the old book Joshua had given him and opened the cover, turning the pages lovingly with his fingers.

There was a knock at his hotel room door. He set the book down with a sigh. "Yeah?"

"Mulder, it's me. Can I come in?"

"Scully...I'm resting...Can you...?"

"It's urgent, Mulder; I need to talk to you."

Reluctantly, he opened the nightstand and slid the book in next to the Gideon Bible. Shutting the drawer, he rose, shuffled to the door, opened it, and immediately turned to flop down on the bed on his back. He left her to close the door after her. "What is it?"

Scully came and sat next to him on the bed, setting her hand on the bedspread near his thigh. She had an unreadable expression on her face as she looked down at him. "I need you to explain something to me," she said and produced a blurry black and white photograph from her pocket.

Mulder felt his stomach twist as he took it from her. It was a police surveillance camera still of Joshua's front entry. It was a photo of him pressing Joshua up against the stucco wall, kissing him.

"Shit..." was all he could think to say and turned the image over, laying his hand over it against his stomach. He couldn't look at her; the image hurt more than one way. "How long have you had this?"

"A few days, since Monday afternoon when the two of you went to Sonoma." Her voice wasn't angry, but it was cool, distant, as if she had been rehearsing this encounter. Two days...

Mulder swallowed, dryly, and looked up at her. "What do you want to know?"

Her lips trembled for a second and then stilled as she pressed them together, determined not to let him see how this had affected her.

"Are you sleeping with him?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Since..." Mulder had to stop to clear his throat. "Since his birthday, last Friday...but I ended it. After Sonoma, I ended it."

She nodded, crossing her arms and shifting, taking a breath as if the worst was now over. "You know, Mulder, I took your advice the other day. On my 'day off' I went to the zoo to look at all the 'cool stuff' and I was standing there watching the chimpanzees swinging upside-down from ropes and old tires and I realized something. I realized I had been going about this case all wrong. Maybe it's the years we've spent together that have made me doubt myself, but I knew suddenly why this case was eluding us so badly. We weren't looking at it the right way--we were avoiding the most obvious and blatant solution, and it almost sickened me how easily all the facts and evidence just came together. But I still doubted myself and I probably wouldn't have followed through on my suspicions...until I got a call from the Hall of Justice and Lt. Jarvis pulled me into his office. He told me they'd set up a video still camera in front of Joshua's flat after the night he was stabbed by Harris. He said there were photos you and I probably wanted to keep just between the two of us and that, since I was your friend, I might want to tell you to watch yourself. I can't tell you how nice he was about it. It surprised me, and I took the photos and thanked him...I actually thanked him for being discreet. He said, well, this is San Francisco...and I..."

She stopped herself, holding her hand over her mouth. It seemed she knew she was babbling and if she wasn't careful, about to cry. "I knew it, Mulder. I saw it happening right before my eyes, but I wouldn't believe it...dammit, Mulder, how could you?"

Mulder felt his body gearing up to do the weeping for her. He shut his eyes. "I'm sorry, Scully. I made a mistake. I've hurt you, and I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you..."

She brushed her hair back from her cheek and stifled a dry sob in a hard swallow. She held her head down, trying to collect herself. "There's more, Mulder. If you're ready to hear it."

Mulder blinked and nodded faintly for her to continue.

"Once I had the evidence of your affair, I decided to pursue my assumptions privately, to take this investigation in a whole new direction, alone. I went back to the beginning, to Philadelphia and Alice Schmidt. Alice had many aliases between 1996 and 1998, but one of them was Mary Baker. Mary Baker spent most of this year living at Faraday Halfway House on Hampshire Lane in Philadelphia, the same street Joshua lived on during the first half of this year--they were practically next door neighbors.

"I looked into Harris next. According to his arrest record, Harris has been a vagrant living within two to three blocks of Davies Symphony Hall for the past ten years. Twice, he was arrested for assault near the stage door and parking garage. Then I found that the valet, Thomas Philmaker, had been parking cars for the War Memorial Opera House and Davies Symphony Hall for nearly five years. According to subsequent interviews conducted by the SFPD with his co-workers, I learned that the night of the crash, Thomas was the valet who parked Elizabeth Allen's car--occupied by both Elizabeth and Joshua when they arrived together for the performance. And I think we both know how long Andy Parsons has been working for Joshua as his driver and occasional body guard..."

She paused a moment, waiting for his reaction. "I understand where you're heading with this, Scully, but all of that is circumstantial. Joshua's lived in these cities off and on for years."

She lowered her eyes and tugged at a piece of bed cover, gaining stamina. "There's more..."

Mulder set both hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat quickening.

"We both know Joshua voluntarily admitted himself to a therapeutic center in Vermont after his grandfather's death two years ago. Yesterday, I managed to get his former analyst on the phone. She was reluctant to divulge specific information, but the center he attended wasn't an official licensed program, either. She was able to tell me that during his stay at Appassionata, Joshua's personality profile showed a strong leaning toward pathological misdirection commensurate with his childhood neglect. He lied a great deal about his past and present situations to her. When he was admitted, he told the general staff that he was a painter from New Jersey who had suffered a bout of deep depression. It wasn't until a month after he'd left the program that she'd learned who he really was through newspaper clippings."

Mulder opened his palms, in a shrug. "But he could have told them those things for any reason. Maybe he didn't want people to know who he really was--to protect his reputation."

"Possibly, but if Joshua's been trying to protect his reputation, then why did he grant a private interview the day after the Philly bomb incident with Nick Stabler, staff writer for the Philadelphia Inquirer--the man who wrote Joshua's curse story?"

"What?"

"I called Stabler yesterday and he played back part of the taped interview for me. Joshua told us a reporter had overheard him mentioning the curse in general conversation. I heard the tape, Mulder; he told the man point blank he thought he was cursed."

Mulder felt doubt like a sickness beginning to take over him. "But what about the Thin Man and the handwriting?"

"Has anyone other than Joshua ever provided a confirmed sighting of this man? Harris reacted to the sketch, certainly, but I think a man with his level of mental degradation would have reacted to a photograph of Barney."

"But he said...Harris said he'd seen the Thin Man..."

"He said those words right after you spoke them, Mulder. He was parroting you."

"But Alice...?"

"Alice sees pink elephants on a regular basis. The valet is dead so we can't ask him, but Joshua's driver--you interviewed him--you told me he claimed he'd never seen a thin man."

Mulder shook his head faintly, recalling how Joshua had woken him in the night, pointing into the dark, asking him, "Can you see him? Can you see him?" All Mulder had seen was an open door.

"But why would Joshua run himself in front of a car, Scully?"

"Because he planned it that way. He'd seen the valet earlier when he'd parked the car. They could have had a plan, an exact time for him to exit the rear door, knowing full well that you would follow him. You saw him get up during the performance, didn't you? How convenient that the two of you were seated so far apart, yet within full visual contact of one another."

"He coerced a man to drive himself into a wall? That's suicide, Scully."

"Maybe the crash was an accident? A plan gone horribly wrong? Maybe Joshua has skills in hypnotic suggestion? I checked into his college records. Joshua took several courses in abnormal psychology and altered states of consciousness at the San Francisco State extension. Two of those courses dealt with hypnosis, in great detail."

"Which would explain the handwriting..." Mulder said weakly, still not wanting to believe it. "But Scully," he said in argument, "what's his motive? Why would he manipulate people to attack him, or pretend to attack him, over and over? What would be the point? He hates the publicity this case has given him. He asked me to lie for him to the SFPD, to tell them *I* was following the Thin Man out of the opera to keep himself out of the crash investigation."

Scully leaned forward slightly, trying to clarify the issue. "He asked you to lie so there would be an official state and Federal record of an officer of the law confirming the existence of this specter he *invented* from an illustration in a Russian book of fables."

That one hit hard. Very hard. Mulder struggled to a seated position, shaking his head numbly while she continued.

"Joshua announced his motive the first night we met him, Mulder. He told us his fear--his fear of being forgotten as a violinist now that he was turning thirty. And despite what Joshua has said, I think we both know that in the entertainment industry, there's no such thing as bad press."

"But...?" Mulder found he had no reasonable rebuttal to give. He just stared at her in shock as she continued.

"So far all that this so-called 'bad press' has cost Joshua is a few Gala cancellations that were quickly resold. Don't forget, he managed to land himself a new world tour contract last week from an orchestra association that had previously passed him up.

"We've been played, Mulder. Both of us. You and I. He's been leading us blindly down the fine edge of Occam's Razor. Look at the preponderance of the evidence--the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. There is no phantom killer, Mulder--as much as you want to believe it--only a sad and confused man, desperately trying to save his fame."

Mulder crossed his legs under him and lowered his head into his hands, trying to think. It was all making too much sense and the working of it was making him feel sick and lightheaded. "This can't be right, Scully. I *know* Joshua. He's not responsible."

"You'll ignore all the evidence against him because you say you know him? How long have you known him, Mulder? A week? Ten days? Are you saying you can know everything about a man just because you've fucked him?"

He looked up at her, feeling a flash of defensiveness. "Scully..."

"I'm sorry, Mulder. I'm sorry I have to tell you like this. People are not always what they seem. You and I should understand that by now."

"What about the money, Scully, and the famine, and Joshua's grandfather and Nanette...?"

"A complex and tragic history story, but ultimately just a fancy wrapping to fold around a simple lie. I think it's not hard to imagine Nanette's been a conspirator in this plot from the start. Joshua took me to her home, and led me to her office. He wanted us to find those papers--they both did. Nanette didn't forge the letter to his accountant releasing the mortgage money. Her writing exam proved she's not capable of forgery. Joshua must have sent the letter himself."

"Why would Joshua steal his own money?"

"To throw authorities off. Hypnosis may work on some, but money works on everyone and Joshua has nearly three million dollars of it."

Mulder looked into her eyes, pleading with her to stop before he was forced to believe it. "But he's been so good to me, Scully. You don't know; he's made me trust him. Why would he go to the trouble to do that if he was only planning on using me in a plot for his own gain?"

Scully reached out and placed her hand on his knee, trying to calm him. "I think that you were the one thing Joshua didn't expect--a bona fide paranormal investigator--the only man in the FBI with the skills and background necessary to see any holes in his plan, to find the faults in his self-executed fable. He seduced you, Mulder. He knew how to get to you."

Mulder shook his head, lowering his voice to a miserable whisper. "It wasn't like that...it was..."

"What did he tell you, Mulder? That he believed in aliens? That he saw ghosts? That he was cursed? haunted? I know you, Mulder. I know how easily you fall for that."

"What are you saying, Scully?"

Scully reached for the photo, holding it up for him to face. He flinched, not wanting to look at it, not wanting to remember how good, how alive, he had felt that night. "Joshua is a private citizen. SFPD must seek permission to post surveillance on private property. Joshua knew about the camera, Mulder. Did he stop you deliberately within its range? What did he do--lose his keys?"

Mulder heard a moan come up from the base of his gut. "Shit...shit, shit, shit..." he was on his feet, pacing the room as it swam in a furious blur before his eyes. He was feeling all the ugliness of the world from America to Ukraine thundering into his right arm as he punched his fist through the wallpapered drywall near the bed.

"Fuck!"

"Mulder!" She was on her feet, pulling him away from the wall and back over to the bed. "Sit down. Jesus, you're bleeding. Let me get a towel."

She brought a dry towel from the bathroom and carefully wrapped his torn hand in it. He hissed and muttered obscenities under his breath as she bound the wound with ice from the nearby bucket. "This is going to swell..."

The pain radiating from his knuckles was somewhat calming. It was helping him to focus not on the mess with Joshua, but rather on the steadfastness of Scully, his friend and partner, the only one he could really trust. He was feeling the tears coming now, the tears of shame. He didn't give a shit--there was nothing to hide from her.

"I've been an idiot, Scully. A first-class, gold-medal-winning asshole," he said.

She looked up into his eyes, wiping a tear from the side of his nose with the type of forgiving expression a mother reserves for her awkward child. "I won't argue with that," she said with a faint smile.

"You're right about me, Scully; I'm a sap. I fall for anyone who will look me in the eye and tell me they believe in all kinds of shit I've been chasing for ten years--Joshua, Diana, they're both the same. They see that weakness in me and they use it to get me to doubt you and I fall for it every single goddamn time."

Her sad smile grew as she held his bleeding fist. "Keep going, Mulder; you're on a roll."

"I've been angry with you, Scully. Frustrated, fed-up. And it's not because you haven't been a loyal partner; it's because after all these years, and everything we've been through together and seen, you still don't believe in any of it. And for some reason I can't seem to get my head out of my ass long enough to realize that doesn't matter, because like you said, you believe in me," he said earnestly, leaning closer to her, right into her familiar light-blue eyes. "You've always believed in me, from the start, and when all the fires and abductions and betrayals have torn the rest of my life apart, when everything has been laid to waste, I find you there, standing with me, ready to move on."

He must be doing well, he felt, because he could almost see the heavy wall that had been building between them these past months crumbling around them. Despite everything he had just been through in the last ten minutes and the throbbing in his hand, he felt relieved, better than he had in months. She was smiling at him again, her sincere gaze of acceptance beginning to blur with tears of her own.

"I think I'd like to accept your apology now, Mulder, and get your fist to a doctor before you become too decrepit to be my partner. We have a case to solve." 

************************

Marina Flat   
8:35 AM   
Wednesday 

Joshua was seated at the piano scribbling onto a music sheet when Mulder entered. He didn't look up or acknowledge him. He played a few notes, frowned, and reached up to the flat top of the piano to begin erasing.

A blurry black and white photograph was slipped over the sheet, catching eraser debris like flypaper. It was a shot of them at night, kissing just inside the front entry. He sighed and looked up. "What's this?"

"Why don't you tell me?" Mulder's voice was like lead. He had a pissy look about him that made Joshua want to slap him.

"Nice shot; can I keep it?" he said, pushing it aside to blow the eraser dust off his page. Mulder's hand came down to push the photo firmly back toward him.

"I'm not here to play games with you. I want answers." God, his tone could be so cold. Joshua should have known it took a steely heart to survive like Mulder had for so long. He'd have some sympathy if he wasn't in just about the worst mood of his life right now. The cadenza was going nowhere. He'd spent most of the night working on it and now the morning was growing old. Joshua could see the knuckles on Mulder's right hand were bandaged. What had he been up to, punching walls?

"So they got a shot of us. Big deal. It's not illegal to kiss a man in California, thank God."

"You knew you were being surveilled, and you didn't bother to tell me?"

Joshua set the eraser down and looked past Mulder to the far end of his flat, bright with morning sunlight. "I have exactly nine hours to finish this cadenza. Would you mind if we took up this spat at a later date?"

"Yes, I would mind. I need an explanation. Were you trying to entrap me?"

"What?" Joshua pushed back from the piano and stood up, not really trying very hard to hold in his rising fury. The man had no right to accuse him of entrapment.

"You *were* informed. You gave permission."

Joshua shook his head, exasperated. "I suppose I did. I don't know; I was rehearsing. I didn't think..."

Mulder had his hand set on his hip, perhaps unintentionally displaying his holster. He nodded his head with no little malice. "You didn't think...This is my *job,* Joshua. You are a protected witness."

"Ah, fuck!" Joshua kicked the piano bench over in one brusque move, slamming it onto the hardwood floor. He turned away a few paces, then circled to face Mulder again. "That's a very convenient way to look at it."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Joshua began to pace back and forth, keeping the piano between them. He shook his head again and again. "No, no, no I tell myself. Don't do this to yourself, Joshua. Leave the straight ones alone before they come back to beat the shit out of you."

Mulder's stance seemed to ease a bit. His voice was not so icy. "Is that why you think I'm here?"

Joshua laughed coldly. "Of course it is. You got off; your dick settled down and now you're thinking with your bigger head again. Time to go slap the violinist around for corrupting you."

Mulder looked away from him, distressed. No, Joshua had to admit to himself, maybe that wasn't why he was here, not consciously anyway.

Joshua took a breath, forcing himself to calm a notch. "So who's seen this?"

Mulder still didn't look at him; his voice sounded defeated. "The police surveillance officer, Lt. Jarvis...my partner."

Joshua looked hard at him. Mulder knew very well he wouldn't lose his job over this. It wasn't very convenient, and he should have perhaps thought to tell him, but from what he knew of Mulder's case history, he'd done much worse.

"This is about your partner, isn't it?"

Mulder reacted like he'd been slapped. "No."

"Why don't you do us both the courtesy of being honest for a change?"

Mulder just stared at him, tightly, while his mind tried to grip what truths or lies were being spoken between them. Finally, his shaking hand came up to wipe across his lower lip. It seemed guilt had won after all. Guilt and shame. "Joshua..."

"You were the biggest mistake I've ever made. Get the fuck out of my home," Joshua said in anger, pointing to his front door. "I don't ever want to see you or hear you say my name again!"

Mulder looked down, lowering his head. He looked like he might either fall over or run. God, this man was a mess.

A silence hung between them for several moments while the traffic continued to breeze by a few stories below.

"I'm sorry," the agent whispered. He took one last glance at Joshua and the black and white photo, before he turned and walked from the room.

Joshua waited until he heard the door latch before sweeping his arm over the back of the piano with a muffled shout, sending his unfinished composition fluttering across the floor with one glossy, blurred, 4X5 image.

 

* * *

 

*********************************

Chapter Seventeen: Cadenza

*********************************

Davies Symphony Hall   
7:58 PM 

Joshua stood backstage, his violin tucked under his arm, watching the orchestra members slowly wandering out to take their seats on the stage. Normally, he spent his final minutes in his private room, gathering his thoughts. But today his thoughts had been enemies that he longed to escape. There was a reason he usually let others manage his life--there wasn't enough room in his mind to accommodate the pursuit of both life and art. When Joshua's life turned to shit, he turned to music. He'd spent most of the last 15 hours immersed in it, sleeping little, perfecting his surprise cadenza tonight. His thumb flicked the end of the bow, anxious to begin.

Someone touched his shoulder and he looked up. Michael Tilson Thomas, music director and conductor of the San Francisco Symphony, had paused to wish him good concert. He asked if Joshua was feeling well as he usually didn't see him in the wing. The conductor was concerned about his all-but-forgotten stab wound. Joshua stretched his arm, showing him it was in fine working order. It seemed like years ago when Joshua had shared that ridiculous violin-playing joke with Mulder in SF General.

"I'm having a hard week is all," Joshua said, assuring him he was more than ready to go on. The conductor smiled and moved away to the edge of the stage to pause before his entrance.

'A hard week' was an understatement Joshua didn't want to elaborate on twenty minutes before a performance. He'd been refusing himself the agony of reliving any of the experiences he'd been through recently. Still, the angry words he'd exchanged with Mulder that morning would find a way to come back to haunt him, he was certain. He could feel the stress building from the effort he was exerting to ignore their exchange. If he could just hold off the emotional repercussions for 26 more hours, he'd have a seven-hour private bus ride to Los Angeles to sort it all out. He'd always had disastrous relationships with men. Why he even bothered to try again with Mulder was beyond him. No, that wasn't true. Loving Mulder had not been a choice; it had been an inevitable truth. The truth that no one would ever make him feel like that again was a crushing blow to his heart. It would have been better not to know it, then to spend the rest of his life trying to forget.

The orchestra began the overture and Joshua turned his consciousness over to the seduction of music, which no one, man or woman, could ever take from him. Music had been his companion from birth.

### 

8:00 PM

Mulder followed his partner up the curved, carpeted hallway that ran behind Davies' dress circle entrances. Joshua may have called off his personal guard, but Davies Hall Security wasn't about to take any chances with a "cursed" performer. Once again they had requested FBI assistance in keeping order during Joshua's last two remaining performances. After tomorrow night, Joshua would be leaving town and his woes would pass on to a new performing arts jurisdiction. Both Davies and Dillmont were looking forward to that day.

Agent Dillmont had been forced into front-row orchestra duty tonight. Mulder didn't feel he could stay focused sitting right under Joshua again, watching him play. The overture had begun and Mulder stopped at one of the partially-curtained entrances to peer over the many silhouetted heads at the stage. The symphony was hard to listen to now that he had grown so close to it in the past week. Classical music was a powerful art form to learn to disassociate oneself from. Mulder wondered if he'd start experiencing bouts of sudden depression in elevators now.

He felt tired, not himself, like the walls around him were closing in, suffocating him. He'd slept fitfully last night, his head filled with bad dreams. He'd dreamt he was at the opera again, standing watching the performance. Only this time when Don Giovanni threw back his hood to laugh, he didn't have the rouged cherub's face of a plump tenor; he had the face of a Russian violinist.

Scully moved close, brushing his arm. She looked concerned.

"I'm fine," he said before she could ask. She squeezed his arm and gave him a supportive smile, heading back up the hall to cover the rest of the entrances. Her reaction to his affair was a tremendous relief to him--the fact she didn't resent him, a revelation. She'd been a real friend to him the last 12 hours, taking care of him at the hospital last night while his knuckles were bandaged, holding ice on his hand. It helped to ease the pain of feeling betrayed.

The evidence against Joshua was overwhelming, yet somehow Mulder was still having a very difficult time accepting it. He'd taken off before dawn this morning to do his own investigating. Everything Scully had gathered on Joshua was accurate and well-supported. She wasn't operating under any assumptions. Why then had he felt the need to confront Joshua at his home? What had he hoped to gain by that? All it had served was to hurt him even more, to have the full flame of Joshua's anger thrown at him. His words had been painful to the extreme. *I don't ever want to see you or hear you say my name again...*

On stage the orchestra was ending the Mozart. Joshua would be introduced soon. Mulder moved from the entry, taking refuge in the long hallway, making sure all was clear. Of course it was clear; the Thin Man didn't exist. It was all a lie.

###

8:15

Joshua stepped out onto the stage taking his position at front stage right, lifting the violin to his shoulder as the welcoming applause receded. He was in his element now, a performer upon his stage. His world was set right again as he turned temporarily to lock eyes with the conductor. Joshua gave a faint nod. MTT took up the baton and the Mendelssohn began.

###

The first dotted quarter note cut into Mulder like a finely honed blade. This concerto that he had heard Joshua play in his apartment on so many occasions brought it all back to him--Berkeley, the Marina flat, Sonoma--the memories of all these places were infused into the sound of Joshua's instrument.

Several hours ago, Mulder had taken a cab to Land's End to get his head together before tonight's performance. He jogged along the cliffs in the cool sea-scented afternoon to the Sutro Ruins. He hadn't meant to wind up there, sweating and out of breath, but the fresh air blowing in off the surf gave him courage and he made his way down the steep windswept hillside to sit on the edge of the ruined walls to think.

His legs dangling over the surf, Mulder had tried to piece it all together. Where had he gone wrong? How could he have been so blind? Why would someone like Joshua go to such lengths to make a fool out of him? It just didn't add up. Whenever he tried to set his mind to match the evidence, his heart refused to listen.

He sat out there on the water for a long time, throwing loose chunks of concrete into the sea. This was where it had begun. This was where they had stood under the heavy moon and Joshua had reached out to kiss him, tasting of champagne. The offer had seemed innocent enough; how could it have turned so ugly? Perhaps he had spent too many years separated from intimacy to know when someone was being honest with him.

It would all be easier to take if Joshua hadn't been so good to him--if Mulder could look back and see echoes of dishonesty. But Joshua had been a friend to him, someone who had welcomed him, accepted him, appreciated him, listened to him, touched him, and moreover, made him feel alive for the first time in years. The sex, regardless of its orientation, had been surprisingly satisfying and restorative. How could Mulder deny the depth of passion he had experienced in Sonoma? Joshua's patience and tenderness while making love to him; Joshua's face bathed in peacefulness, sleeping warmly against him in the night--these were not the actions of a vain and vindictive man. Being loved by Joshua had been one of the truest experiences Mulder had ever known. His heart was heavy with its absence, and his mind, simply confused.

###

The first movement, the allegro molto appassionato, was working its way toward the cadenza. Joshua felt comfortable, in the moment. He knew as his solo approached he would fall effortlessly into his written composition. He was pleased with it--he felt it would work nicely, give the critics something to scribble about tomorrow. At all costs he was determined to make progress tonight, put the recent past behind him if by no other means than sheer will. If he couldn't control his life, he could at least control the music. It was coming up fast; the time was now.

A hushed consensus of approval from the orchestra members was his first indication that his cadenza was making a statement as he began to play it out. The musicians knew how this was supposed to go, but they weren't nearly expecting the switch to major. Joshua played into the emotions of the simple two-note line, and perhaps it was the use of key, or merely the untrained experience of playing off the page, but those memories he had been trying so hard to suppress all day came through in a rush, filling him with unexpected longing for someone who he wasn't even sure was listening tonight. He slowed the major passage down. The melody was changing in his heart and his fingers followed it willingly--back to Sonoma, to the colors of the valley, the sunlight--even the tragedy of rain inhabited the soul of his violin. Joshua was speaking in his own improvisational language of love, desire and loss. He recalled sitting at the end of the bed in his home while Mulder slept, captured by the instinct to play what was in his heart--a lullaby. He closed his eyes and followed it, being led by the honesty of music, rather than by the practice of it.

###

Mulder was still hidden in the dim hall when he heard the start of the cadenza. There was no way to escape the sound of the violin. Fifteen inches of stained driftwood never had such power as when it was worked by Joshua's hands. Joshua was changing the cadenza and Mulder came to stand next to Scully again, peeking through the partially opened curtain at the stage. Mulder remembered what the newspaper reviewer had said about the art of classical improvisation. Joshua had been writing a cadenza when Mulder visited him that morning. At the time he had been too filled with suspicious anger to fully comprehend Joshua's unkempt appearance. It was strange to find the musician unshaven and rumpled. Mulder hadn't realized he intended the new piece to be played tonight. There was no end to Joshua's ability to amaze him.

At a distance, Joshua looked elegant and poised, his bow pulling over the strings, working them in a slow cadence. His solo was sad and beautiful, filled with an unmistakable longing that made Mulder's throat tighten. In a moment the melody altered, turned itself around into something Mulder had only heard once before, and the pain of recognition forced him to turn away.

Scully followed him into the hallway as he sank heavily against the railing, throwing his head back against the carpeted wall with a miserable thud. His hands came up over his eyes as he fought to keep it together. He shouldn't have come tonight--he was much too close to this case.

She took his hands, gently, lowering them from his face. He blinked, looking away, fighting to keep back the onset of tears. Her eyes registered his pain and she rubbed his hand. "Oh, Mulder," she said sadly. "You're really hurting, aren't you?"

He closed his eyes and tossed his head back, giving it another dull thump, trying to regain some control. He wanted to explain to her why this was so hard. "I asked him if he would play this again for me, Scully. It's a Ukrainian lullaby his grandfather taught him. It meant a great deal to him and to me. He's made it a part of his cadenza."

Her lips moved, trying to find words of comfort. "I'm so sorry, Mulder. He's not going to let you go that easily, is he? You need to be careful. You can't let him get to you like this."

"I know," he said, biting his lip painfully. "It's difficult. I didn't tell you; I went to see him today."

She looked worried, but not disapproving.

"I asked him to explain himself, but he floored me by accusing me of coming by to hurt him...to punish him for making me want to be with a man. It isn't true, Scully. I would never do that to him. Not even if he was..." Mulder sighed. He couldn't even say it yet. *...if he was guilty.*

She still held his hand, reassuringly. "Trust me, Mulder. It will be okay. We just need to be patient. We need to keep an eye on him."

Mulder nodded, feeling some control return. She had to be right. He was much too close to Joshua to see him clearly. He had to trust her to protect him like she had countless times before. He squeezed her hand and wiped the back of his arm over his eyes as the cadenza concluded and the original tempo took over again.

###

Immersed in the melody of the bassoon guiding them into the second movement, Joshua felt the relief wash over him that he had let his heart open to release its withheld sorrow for the audience. It wasn't a secret he needed to keep in anymore--it was a gift. This was the suffering that drove the human impulse to create. The knowledge of loss--a tragedy as old as time--certainly as old as the concerto he played or the violin he played on, shaped by hand, hundreds of years ago. He closed his eyes, leaving the stage and the orchestra behind, lost in the instrument's clear voice. The andante wove itself around him, protecting him. Inside that musical cocoon, he could find the caring that was otherwise so elusive to him.

"Joshua..."

The single note of a rasping voice entered his mind. It was his name again, spoken with coldness, bitterness and revenge. He'd been hearing it these last weeks over and over like a sick taunting game.

*Not now. Not here,* his mind hissed as his slow trill matched the gentle pluck of the cellos. No one was allowed into this perfect space that belonged to him alone.

"Joshua..." it whispered again, sounding closer. Joshua refused to acknowledge it; only the soft pulse of the Andante was real, the rest was all a bad dream.

"You do not listen..." it spat under the suspended fifth, hanging on the phrase as Joshua's violin completed the progression, descending into resolution. It was closer--it was coming closer.

Fear broke the spell and Joshua's eyes shot open just as the orchestra held the final note of the movement, his bow drawing so slowly over the E, sustain, sustain...and quiet.

The Thin Man was on the stage, under the same golden lights, walking toward him across the polished floor in his filthy felt coat. He was walking without footfalls in front of thousands who all sat unknowing, releasing a cough or fidgeting briefly in the pause between the second and third movements. They couldn't see the specter closing in on Joshua any more than Joshua could look beyond the brilliant curtain of lights to see the faces of the audience he knew were seated before him.

Joshua's instrument hung loosely at his side, the bow dangling from his forefinger. He was resting his arm, as was his habit for the few seconds' rest he received in the Mendelssohn before starting the final Allegro. His heart was pounding in his chest. He could hear each thump, growing louder as the man approached. Fear crawled into his nerves, sending a signal to his brain to at all costs, run! Get free!

But he couldn't. His performer's instinct was at the helm. Joshua took the violin up in his left hand and his chin felt for the warmed wood of the Stradivarius as the Thin Man methodically cleared the distance, moving slow and steady, coming for him.

Joshua breathed, the air sounding harsh and rough in his lungs. He turned his head to the left to look at the conductor who was holding out the baton, awaiting Joshua's cue to begin. He was about to make the small affirmative move to signal the director's arm to fall. Downbeat was imminent; the pause had been long enough, too long.

Joshua's fear made his eyes track once more toward the lights. The Thin Man stood directly in front of him. He was raising his pole-like arms, reaching out to Joshua, the cracked smile of death breaking across his sunken face. In the lights he was horrible to see, a walking corpse. "You don't exist," Joshua said without breath. His bone-thin hands, cold as icicles, reached out to Joshua, cupping his head, pressing over his ears. Inches from his nose, the death's head spoke.

"Tishena," it said.

Rome took flame as Joshua's chin dropped, cueing the conductor to begin. 

******************************

Mulder crossed the hall to look back at the stage. The third movement was underway, the orchestra frolicking along after Joshua's violin. Except it didn't sound like Joshua's violin; it sounded...different.

Scully caught his concerned expression. "What is it, Mulder?"

"Something's wrong. Something's not right," Mulder mumbled, squinting at the brightly-lit stage and its soloist. Scully stood beside him, peering around the curtain.

"I don't understand. What are you seeing?"

"It's not what I'm seeing; it's what I'm hearing. That's not how Joshua plays this. Something's wrong. He's moved; he's standing differently."

Mulder watched Scully as she observed the scene. "He's just watching the conductor. I don't understand. I know this piece, Mulder. It sounds fine to me."

Mulder reached into his pocket for his phone. "I'm alerting security. Joshua's seen something, or...I don't know, but I swear, Scully, I've heard him practice this piece over and over. It's just not how he plays it."

His partner kept her eyes on the stage while Mulder called the Davies Hall security chief. They were sending extra men backstage and toward the lower orchestra to check for suspicious activity.

Mulder hung up his phone and leaned toward Scully. "Keep this post covered; I'm heading backstage."

###

Mulder broke into a jog once he reached the maintenance passage. Whether Joshua's life was a lie or not, he knew nothing would keep the truth from his performance. The facts Scully had laid out were hard to deny, but Mulder's gut instinct was all but screaming at him to listen to the situation with a less-trained ear.

He cut through the dressing rooms and opened the backstage door, flashing his badge at the techies who rushed forward to halt him. He stopped, standing to the side in the darkness of the wing, catching his breath as Joshua and the San Francisco Symphony finished the last seventeen bars of the concerto.

The audience broke into applause and Joshua bowed, somewhat haltingly. His body language was communicating a restrained panic that became more apparent as he exited the stage and walked briskly past everyone in the shadows toward his private room, keeping his eyes to the ground. He didn't see Mulder and the agent called after him, squeezing past the backstage security and technical crew jamming the hall. Mulder caught up just in time to see Joshua's private door slam and hear the bolt slide and lock. Mulder knocked on the door.

"Joshua? Are you all right? Can you open the door?"

There was no reply, just the sound of rapid movements coming from within. Mulder put his ear to the door. He could hear the quick pace of Joshua's breathing as the stage crew and even the symphony's conductor all gathered around, concerned. Joshua had missed his curtain call.

Mulder pounded and called out to him to no avail. Finally, he turned to the music director. "I think he saw something in the audience. His performance was off, wasn't it?"

The conductor nodded. "He was technically accurate, but it wasn't the Joshua I know. He hesitated before beginning the last movement."

Mulder agreed with a grim nod, jiggling the knob. "Can someone get a key for this door?"

A key was located, but before the stagehand could untangle his string of keys, Joshua burst out of his room, hastily attired in his casual clothes. He looked wildly at the crowd assembled, and made a dash, violin case in hand, for the stage door.

*The Thin Man has him,* was Mulder's concerned thought as he kept close on Joshua's heels, calling to him. Joshua rushed out the stage door and into the backseat of his waiting car, held open by his driver. Joshua slid in, slamming the door shut and locking it, shouting at his driver to "Go! Go!"

Mulder caught the driver by the arm as he made to circle to the front to do as he was asked. "Wait a minute," the agent said, holding open his badge. "Let me find out what's going on with him. I think he's just spooked."

The driver looked at Mulder's ID and unlocked the back door so Mulder could enter. In the dark interior, Mulder could see Joshua sitting in the far corner, hunched over, his hands around the back of his head. His eyes were closed as if he was in pain.

"Joshua?"

The musician was making a strange moaning sound as his hands shifted to cover his ears.

"What's going on, Joshua? What's wrong?"

When he failed to reply, Mulder moved across the seat toward him and touched his shoulder. Joshua jumped violently at the contact and looked up in surprise at Mulder. He was shaking all over and his eyes reflected the dark echoes of terror.

Mulder touched his hair, trying to calm him. "It's okay, Joshua. I'm here. What's going on?"

Joshua's eyes narrowed and he shook his head like he didn't understand. Mulder repeated himself and Joshua still failed to comprehend.

"I..." he finally began to say, his fingers coming up to touch the curve of his ear.

"What?"

"I...can't hear you." 

*********************************

Chapter Eighteen: Tishena

********************************* 

Weightlessness. In a world without senses, the child floated. His small body had slipped through the ice and he had sunk into the murky pond like a sodden leaf. His toes didn't quite reach the muddy bottom, his head was not quite breaking the surface. He was submerged, the heavy waters rocking him up and down, up and down. Surrounded by fluid in a cold womb, Joshua wanted to sleep, drift with numbness into oblivion. Senselessness could be realized were it not for the thuds shuddering from above. Men were searching for him, crossing the ice, calling out, testing the brittle surface with long poles. They came closer to his frozen head, striking the silver film.

A sudden current rippled through the water and he started, air retching from his lungs like a sickness. He wanted to breathe, his chest pleading for relief. His head tipped skyward and his eyes opened. A rowboat cracked the surface as it glided overhead and stilled. A man leaned over the side, peering into the water. His blurred mouth was moving as if he were shouting for someone. The man's hand reached down, breaking into the icy silence of the water, reaching for him.

###

Davies Medical Center ER   
1:45 AM

Joshua jerked and opened his eyes.

"It's okay," Mulder said, laying his hand on Joshua's head, stroking the edge of his ear with his thumb. Joshua had been dozing on the gurney. Mulder hated to wake him, but hated even more to watch him struggle with his dreams. He stood next to him trying to communicate comfort even though he knew Joshua couldn't hear the words. He stroked the side of his face. It made sense to try and ground him with touch.

Joshua's eyes tracked over the room, skittish and afraid. He was still having difficulty orienting himself in the white rooms of the ER.

"Spinning..." he said with difficulty, halting on the start of his words. It would take some time for Joshua to learn how to speak comfortably without the use of his ears. The room was still moving to him, an inner ear imbalance somehow related to his sudden auditory failure. He looked pale to Mulder, closed off and frightened. Joshua had barely said three words to him since they left Davies.

Mulder reached for the erasable noteboard and pen the nurse had provided lying near Joshua's bed. /How are you feeling?/ he wrote.

Joshua frowned, motioning for the pen board. /What's wrong with me?/ he wrote sloppily, still lying on his side, too out of it to sit up. Two hours ago he'd been administered a dose of Meclizine to calm the vertigo and himself. He had become nearly hysterical at one point during the course of exams the emergency neurologist and ENT ordered on him. They'd feared an aneurysm. Joshua didn't take well to being strapped down for the MRI. It didn't matter; the images of his brain had come back normal. Two hours had passed now and they still failed to find any answers.

/We don't know yet. You seem to be in no danger./ Mulder replied in writing.

Joshua read the words and pushed the pad away.

Mulder took it up again, wiping the slate clean with his hand. /They'll send for an audiologist tomorrow./ Joshua read it, but did not respond. He closed his eyes, pressing his head into the pillow. "I want to go home," he whispered.

###

Marina Flat   
2:34 AM

Mulder assisted Joshua in readying for bed. He helped him change out of his clothes, moving the covers back for him to lie down. The Meclizine was starting to wear off, but the majority of Joshua's despondency was attributed to disorientation and ultimately, shock.

Mulder sat next to Joshua on the bed as he got comfortable, settling on his stomach. Mulder placed his hand on the man's back, rubbing gently until he felt him relax.

/Try to sleep. Scully and I will watch you./ Mulder wrote on the pad. He reached over Joshua's head to shut off the lamp and draw the blanket up over his shoulders. It was only after Joshua had closed his eyes and seemed to drift off that Mulder got up to face Scully, who'd been watching them from the center of the room.

She looked uncomfortable. Mulder didn't care how it appeared to her right now. Joshua needed a friend.

"I don't think requesting a specialist is going to make any difference tomorrow," she said in a hushed voice.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because the ENT ran Joshua through all the standard examinations tonight and concluded that there was no apparent physical cause for his condition--no injury, infections or tumors."

"That's because the cause isn't physical," Mulder said firmly.

Scully sighed. "Mulder..."

"Why are you whispering, Scully?"

Scully looked obstinately at him--her impatience with him was quite visible. She gestured for him to move with her to the far end of the flat. Mulder followed with trepidation for her coming argument. She turned to him once they'd reached the kitchen bar. "I'm whispering because I'm not 100 percent certain he's deaf. His MRI indicated his auditory nerves are functioning normally."

"I don't care about the tests. It's obvious to me he can't hear."

"According to Joshua he was struck deaf by the so called Thin Man--who no less than a thousand people failed to witness--just before the final movement of the concerto. After which, Joshua went on to finish the performance flawlessly. "

"So? He's a good violinist."

"Or a very good actor. And if you elect to believe his story at face value, you've allowed yourself to be more influenced than I thought."

"But it's like Beethoven...he's like Beethoven," Mulder insisted.

"What?"

"One of the first conversations I ever had with Joshua...he told me about Beethoven conducting the premiere performance of the Ninth Symphony while he was stone deaf...he followed the bows of the first violins."

"That might be fine for waving a stick, Mulder, but Beethoven wasn't playing an intuitive instrument. The violin...its fingering is relative to the pitch of the orchestra. Joshua may be a virtuoso, but I don't believe he could possibly have pulled off a concerto finale in this condition; if it is a condition."

"You're saying he's making this all up?"

"Yes...No. I don't know. He may believe that he's not hearing. In cases of psychogenic hypacusis the perception of deafness can be brought on by extreme stress, but I'd hate to find ourselves in a compromised position with him. I think we need to operate as if he can hear us."

Mulder stood staring at her. "You really believe he'd lie about something like this?"

Scully opened her palms in frustration. "Of course he would. He's been lying to us all week. It's very convenient that he's already fed you a history lesson to back up this whole scenario."

Mulder pursed his lips and shook his head. "You can't convince me of that, Scully."

"Mulder!" she exclaimed, although her voice was still hushed. "How much more corroborating evidence do you need?"

"I don't buy it, Scully. Everything you've shown me so far on him is purely circumstantial," Mulder replied, beginning to lose his grip on the enforced reasoning in his voice.

Scully's mouth parted as she stared back up at him, blinking in amazement. "I can't believe I'm hearing this. You're denying everything we've proven. You're clinging to invisible suspects and fantasies. What will it take to make you see him for who he really is?"

"What will it take for you to see that he might actually care for me?" Mulder said abruptly. He stopped, shocked that he had just said those words to her.

"What are you saying to me, Mulder?" she said, unsteadily. "That you're in love with him?"

Mulder struggled to provide a response, but found he couldn't. His lack of reply stunned them both as they stood in the far corner of Joshua's dark flat caught in a surrealistic limbo.

A small object hit the floor and both agents flinched. Out of the darkness, an erasable marking pen rolled freely toward them across Joshua's wooden floor. They looked beyond it to find Joshua standing in the center of his flat holding a sign.

/Get out!/ it read. 

************************

3:42 AM

Sleepless, Joshua sat at the end of his bed for over an hour, staring across the bare floor to the back of the piano. The instrument's long back was a cold, remote black. In its center, like an island, sat the Stradivarius case staying afloat in a frozen ink sea. Joshua felt himself rise and reach out for the thick weave of the case. He unzipped and unlatched it in two simple movements. Inside, the violin lay patiently, waiting for him to wake it like a sleeping fairy maiden. He took her in his hands, familiar, and tucked her under his chin. He smelled the ancient wood, colored an even mahogany in the dim light from the street--its aged imperfections smoothed by paucity of light as if it were reborn into the night.

His fingers moved to first position, his wrist dipped to take up the bow, twisting the peg taut. Bow met string as his arm moved instinctively. The open 'A' rang out, and for a single moment of relief, Joshua could swear he had heard it clear like the ring of a church bell. But when the vibrations under his chin stilled, the perfect 440 'A' rang on in his head until he silenced it. The violin would still give to him, but he had no capacity to accept its gift, only the memories of thousands of hours of solitude lost with the failing of his ears.

Lovingly, he lay the Stradivarius back in the case along with the bow, loosening the strings for long storage. He closed the lid and slipped the locks into place. He slowly walked away from the piano around the bench to look out the window. The Bay was smooth and calm like polished onyx. In his mind he saw the frozen pond beyond the farm--a soft blue-gray sheet--and tried to remember the serenity he had found under those dormant branches. The border collie looked up from where she had fallen asleep at his feet, the eyes of trust and love. Another winter from then his grandfather would come and save him, raise him to greatness; but the dog had remained behind. He never knew what had become of her.

With a sob, Joshua gripped the piano bench, lifting it over his head and cast it into the cold thin pane of the window, smashing it into a billion brilliant pieces that flew apart in perfect silence--tishena. 

************************

3:55 AM

Mulder found him sitting on the floor at the side of his bed, bleeding from the hands in a glinting sea of broken glass. He was in the dark, shivering in the cold wind that flew in from the ocean blowing his home apart. Trinkets and papers had fallen from the shelves and lamps had tipped over and broken in the gusts. Joshua was cold, unresponsive. His eyes were open, but his face was streaked in blood from where he had tried to cover his eyes.

Mulder helped him up and held him against his shoulder, covering him with his coat. He walked him slowly out to the car where he'd been waiting, parked on the street out of sight, until he heard the crash of the piano bench escaping the fourth floor and splintering into kindling on the sidewalk below. Scully had gone back to the hotel.

Joshua sat still in the passenger's seat as they drove to the ER. His torn hands were lying limp in his lap, wrapped in lime-green dish towels that Mulder had found in a Sonoma shopping bag. By the time they reached the medical center again, Joshua's shivering had stopped and he stared bleakly at his wrapped hands. Mulder turned off the car and was about to open the driver's door when Joshua finally spoke to him.

"Why has God abandoned me?" he asked in a voice wavering from being used without the guidance of his ears. "I've never played with more honesty before in my life."

Mulder shook his head and mouthed, "He hasn't."

"But you have," he said, lowering his head in despair.

###

Davies Medical Center   
5:30 AM

Mulder sat, despondent, counting the number of blue-gray floor tiles in the hospital hallway. He felt there was something he should be doing, someone he should be talking to, arresting, shaking up and down for answers, but there was no one left to ask. The mystery of Joshua's curse had been revealed. There was nothing to do but wait and hope. Joshua was a musician who couldn't hear--that was a cold hard fact--Mulder didn't care what the reasons were anymore.

He also couldn't care that Lt. Jarvis chose this early peak of the morning to make an appearance. The misplaced rogue gunman of the West strode up the hallway toward Mulder's slouched form, taking the seat next to him.

"Mornin', Agent Mulder," he said, tipping an invisible hat.

"Why are you here?" Mulder asked tiredly.

"I'm doing you a favor," he said.

"Somehow I doubt that."

"I don't know if I'd be so quick to judge. I'm having my men keep those nosy reporters out of this hallway," he said with a nod toward the main parking lot. "Seems your boy put on quite a show last night."

"I don't find that amusing," Mulder said darkly, shifting as if to stand.

"That's not humor you're gettin' from me, son," Lt. Jarvis said, stalling him. "Just the truth."

Mulder wanted to end this conversation before it got started. "I've had enough of the truth this week."

"Now just settle yourself down and listen here for a minute. I didn't come here to get you all in a froth. I'm here to do my dutiful follow-up on a disturbance call from the boy's neighbors. Somebody's upset they've got shattered glass and bench legs in their rosebushes."

Mulder sighed. "Joshua's understandably upset. I shouldn't have let him be alone. He's very vulnerable right now and unpredictable. You can't blame him for that, after what he's been through."

Jarvis rubbed his mustache, agreeing. "Well, I'm not here to arrest him, anyway. I'm here to talk to you. I know a little something about you--and I don't mean your fondness for violin-playin' fellas. I did a little checking up on you and I know about the kind of work you do. It's a far cry from throwing bums in the can, but if you'll give me your ear a minute, you might learn something from an old street cop."

Mulder sat back in his chair, wary. "I'm listening."

"I've spent over thirty years dragging junkies and drunks and just plain crazy folk off the streets and into the lockup so they'll stop bothering the regular folk. We clean 'em up, feed 'em, give 'em a warm place to sleep before the law says we gotta turn 'em loose again. It doesn't do much good; they just come right back. Each time they're just the same or maybe even a little worse off. Do you know why they keep coming back?"

Mulder shook his head vaguely. He'd been up all night and didn't feel like conjuring the energy to launch into a social commentary.

"They keep coming back because they can't face their demons. A man who overcomes addiction is a man who's faced himself and his troubles head-on. Locking these fellas up only gives them a place to hide one more day. I don't pretend to know your business, but I do know you've been bending over backwards to protect that boy in there and it ain't doin' a heap of good for him."

"I'm doing my job," Mulder insisted.

"Yep, and I do mine. But I know you were feeding me a tall tale that night at the opera and your friend in there wasn't doing very well to hide himself in your coat. I interviewed the second valet; he saw what really went on, but I kept it out of my final report because I trusted you knew what you were about."

Mulder looked at the floor. That fabrication had caused him more trouble than Lt. Jarvis could guess.

"I've seen plenty of demon-haunted men, but I ain't ever seen anything like what's after that poor boy. It's not the kind of thing I'm familiar with, but I know you are, so I'm more than willing to keep back from your case. What I'm saying is, maybe protecting him is only making his demons get meaner."

Mulder looked over at the older man. Lt. Jarvis was regarding him with patience and support. Perhaps he wasn't half the pompous ass Mulder had taken him for. He'd been good about the photos, after all. "Thank you for respecting my business," Mulder said civilly.

Lt. Jarvis stood up and placed a big hand on Mulder's shoulder. "Just do me a favor and keep the boy from throwing the rest of the piano out the window, okay?"

"I will."

###

Mulder stood at the foot of Joshua's bed, watching him sleep. He was lying on his side, breathing in shallow gulps of air. Even in sleep his adrenaline-charged body refused to let him relax. He seemed so fragile to him right now, like glass, ready to shatter under the slightest tremble. How could he even begin to leave Joshua alone to stake his own battle?

Joshua's eyes opened and he looked to Mulder.

Mulder took up the message board and wrote across the pad. /I don't know how to free the boy from the barn./

Joshua flexed his hands; they were partially bandaged, but useful. He held out for the pen and wrote in blocky letters. /Find a key./

###

Mulder was wandering back from the coffee vendor, nursing his third cup of brown swill, when he saw Joshua's mother in the hallway, opening her son's door and slipping inside his room.

That was odd, he thought. How did she know? The morning papers had yet to be delivered. He didn't have much time to wonder before his eyes caught a shadowy form in a long felt coat turning to flee at the far end of the long hall.

"Hey!" he yelled, dropping the nearly emptied cup and running for the end of the hall. "Stop, Federal Agent!"

He reached the corner in time to see the stairwell door clicking shut. He ran for it and took off down the cold cement steps, pulling his weapon. The gray-headed figure was a few flights down, moving slowly. It wasn't long before he gained the distance and the figure held up his hands as Mulder pinned him against the wall. The "figure" barely came up to his shoulder. He turned him around.

"Nanette."

"I'm sorry," she gasped out of breath. "Don't hurt me."

Mulder let her go and holstered his weapon. "Why did you run from me? And why the hell are you wearing this coat? I could have shot you!"

She held her hands up in fear. "Don't shoot me! Don't shoot me!"

"I'm not," he insisted. "But you could tell me why you're sneaking around in here."

"I brought someone to see Joshua."

"Who?"

"The only one who doesn't know him as a musician."

"His mother," Mulder realized. "Did you go in to see him? He's been missing you."

The old woman lowered her mussed gray head. "I can not see him. Poor darling; not like this. Not after what I've done."

"What did you do?"

She shook her head sadly like she couldn't answer him.

"Goddammit, Nanette! Joshua's been struck deaf. Don't you think now might be a good time to confess? I don't give a crap about your past or whatever rituals you participated in sixty years ago. I'm not even remotely interested in arresting you for illegal immigration, forgery or otherwise. All I care about is helping Joshua and I need answers from you, now!"

She looked up at him with reddened gray eyes. "It all started so long ago; I never knew the evil we did would become so deadly. Joshua's grandpapa thought he'd be safe if he only stayed out of Ukraine. He forbade Joshua to ever tour near there. But it's grown so powerful. It's crossed continents and generations. Every day it becomes stronger," she hissed.

"Explain it to me, so I can help you stop it."

"You cannot stop it. It is immortal. But...I will try so you can understand. It began with the birth of a child..."

###

Joshua stared at his bound hands, wrapped in white gauze. They seemed such a simple sacrifice. He'd cut them off at the wrists if it meant the restoration of his ears. He kept hoping he would wake up to the sound of his own breathing and let this nightmare end. Instead he was encased in a glass box, invisible and impenetrable. He was separated from the one thing that defined his very life. He didn't know the measure of himself without music. Music was the length and breadth of him. It dictated his ambitions, his friends, his passions. Without it, there was nothing. He became invisible. He ceased to exist. He remembered his birthday party--the gold balloons, the laughter, the indulgences. The world was his that day. Fortune had smiled on him briefly, her fickle favor now all but forgotten.

He didn't have the mind to protest when his mother entered, looking lost and afraid for him. She came to his bedside, but unlike the others, she didn't try to speak. So many lips had been mocking him with their ability to make sound. Hers were still, but her eyes said everything--they spoke of love, unconditional, as she took his bound hand and held it between her own.

"I can't play, mama. I have to leave the stage...I'm nobody now."

Her sad eyes looked deeply into his. They were dark blue like his own. "You are my son," they said as she reached for him, cradling his head in her arms, holding him tightly to her breast.

Joshua surrendered to her embrace. For the first time he allowed himself to be a child for her. Since this whole tragedy began, he allowed himself to weep.

###

He was resting now, exhausted from the tears and wails he didn't hold back--he couldn't hear himself to be ashamed by it. His mother sat next to his bed, her hand over his, silently willing him to sleep.

His mind was quieting, giving up the struggle to strain for sound. His thoughts hushed and his consciousness abated. In that stillness he could begin to hear it--faint simple tones, string for string--a Bach partita, the foundation of music. The violin sang him to sleep.

*********************************

Chapter Nineteen: Gifts

*********************************

Marina Flat   
6:12 PM

The day was growing late when Joshua was allowed back into his ravaged apartment. The clean-up crew left a message at the hospital telling him it was safe to reenter as long as he kept away from the missing window, now covered by thick plastic sheets. He walked slowly across the bare wooden floor trying to understand where his things had been placed. His belongings had been gathered and stacked at the far end of the flat. His bed had been cleared of glass-dusted sheets, leaving only the bared mattress. The shards and broken lamps and frames had been swept up and thrown away. His mother had come by for the Stradi hours ago and was sitting with it right now over at the St. Francis hotel where she'd arranged for a room for him. Joshua's driver was waiting outside in the car while he stopped to get some clothes and personal items for the next few nights. He couldn't see much farther beyond that.

Joshua opened his closet and stepped inside, pushing pants and shirts along the racks with his bandaged hands. His fingers were going to be fine. Only one of the cuts had required stitches. Even so, there would be more scars. He longed to shower and change into a fresh set of clothes, but he just couldn't seem to coordinate his mind and body to the task. He'd wait until he reached the hotel, he thought numbly, tossing a few pairs of slacks and shirts over his shoulder.

His balance was much better. The medication was working even if it left him a little groggy. He welcomed the dullness, it kept him from thinking too much. It kept him moving along to the next hour. He'd sat through another grueling round of exams at a specialized clinic earlier that afternoon with an audiologist. They closed him in a soundproof booth while they held tuning forks against his skull. He could feel the vibrations through to his teeth--but his ears, nothing. Nothing was getting through. He hadn't expected it to. He'd have to fend for himself now, without the benefit of sound to help him find his way. He didn't know how long he'd want to journey like this. The thought of being permanently deaf was overwhelming, a pain unlike anything he'd ever known. He could hardly fathom the passage of time. How did he come from the minor tragedy of losing a pair of pants to this? Every new day seemed to deal him another blow. Today, Mulder had failed to visit him even once and Joshua had no sensible way of contacting him. He hadn't seen him since the early morning, hours before his mother arrived at the hospital. She was all he had now.

Joshua nearly jumped out of his skin when he exited his closet to find Scully standing in the center of the room, speaking to him. She looked angry. She was waving a sheet of paper at him.

"What?" he asked when he'd recovered himself. Dammit, didn't she remember he was stone deaf? She kept on speaking, growing more heated. He set his clothes down over the plastic-covered couch and walked past her to the end of his flat to rummage through his misplaced belongings for a pen. He was reaching down into a stacked drawer when he felt dust floating into his eyes. He blinked and looked up. A half-inch bullet hole had materialized in the wall just past his shoulder.

He spun around. Scully had her gun on him.

"Oh, shit!" he exclaimed and dove for the safety of the kitchen bar, scrambling on his belly toward the cabinets, hoping to find an object to protect himself with. He couldn't hear if she was coming up on him so he kept whipping his head around as he ripped open drawers and cabinets. He threw out pristine bowls and spoons he didn't even know he owned until he found a large knife.

Something white skittered toward him and he rolled left, hoping to miss it, all the while shouting for help. When he righted himself he saw it was the pen board. On it was a message.

/I'm not trying to shoot you. I thought you were going for a gun./

Joshua got up slowly onto his legs, still bent behind the counter. "Show me your hands!" he hollered at her. Presently, he saw her arms rise into the air beyond the bar. He stood up. She had a shocked expression on her face, but her weapon was holstered. "What the fuck are you doing?"

She nodded for the pad and Joshua handed it to her cautiously, keeping the knife in his bandaged right hand.

She wrote quickly and held up the board. /You can't hear me, can you?/

"No!" he shouted in disbelief. "You didn't believe me?"

She took the board, wiped and wrote, /Not until you didn't hear the shot. I'm sorry./

Joshua winced and gripped his side where he had fallen wrong, trying to catch his breath while she erased and wrote more.

/Mulder told me you were going to buy a gun./

"I should have. Shit, I thought you were coming after me."

/I'm here about Mulder. He's missing./

"Missing? How?"

/Something's wrong. He hasn't come back./

"Come back from where? Where did he go?"

/I thought he was with you until I searched his hotel room./ She paused, erased, and wrote, /I found something very disturbing./

She set the message board down and retrieved the paper she'd been waving at him along with several other sheets and torn pieces of what looked like Marriott stationery. She set them out on the counter one by one for Joshua to read, pressing them flat.

What began as Mulder's study notes of the message from the cell wall had increased over time to include several new phrases neither of them had ever seen before. Joshua read the first of the scraps. They were smaller, torn away pieces. It looked like they had been deliberately separated from the larger sheets.

"You must hear us."

"You do not listen."

"You never play for us."

"We try to silence you, yet you still play."

"We are tired of waiting to be heard."

"It will end soon."

"You will come to us."

The torn-out phrases where written in the Thin Man's hand.

The rest of the writings, the bulk of them, were even more disturbing. They were ramblings scrawled across sheet after sheet of paper in a straight, strong hand.

"Mulder wrote these?" Joshua asked, wishing he was wrong.

Scully nodded gravely.

The ramblings, like the ramblings of the homeless suspects, were angry gut-deep words of hatred and fear.

"...what have you done to ME? I came here to help you. I BELIEVED you. I was doing my JOB. You used me. I tried to help you. You got into my dreams. What kind of shit are you trying to PULL? You thought you could just SUCK me off? ALL that BULLSHIT at the opera. I came there to END it. You made me watch you with that BITCH. You knew it would turn me on. You were SEDUCING me. You don't care about anyone. You USED me. You MADE me want to kiss you. You knew I hadn't BEEN with anyone. What the fuck was I thinking? You and your GODDAMNED violin. DON GIOVANNI. You used me. You knew how to get to me. You pretended to RESPECT me. You pretended to LIKE me. No one respects me. No one GETS me. You played me like you play that piece of WOOD. YOU let them get a photo of us. I NEVER let anyone in, not ANYONE. What did you MAKE me do? You are a protected witness! This is my JOB! WHAT did you make me do? You are a protected witness! I let you FUCK me, you sick little fag. I LET YOU FUCK ME! I..."

Joshua pushed the paper away from him, letting the knife drop from his hand. He couldn't stand to read any more of it. "That's not him," Joshua choked, brushing his shaking hand over his mouth. "It wasn't like that." He looked across the counter at Scully, feeling the hot prick of tears. "You didn't think...? You didn't believe this, did you?"

Scully regarded Joshua with contrition. /I always believe too late./

"But what do you believe now?"

/I believe Mulder may try to kill you./

Joshua looked away, wiping his eyes. No, that was impossible. Mulder would never hurt him. He wasn't like other men. Joshua hadn't meant to say those things to him. He was hurt and angry, but he never really believed Mulder could have those phobic notions. The writings were a lie, a perversion of the truth--they had to be. Scully tugged at his sleeve, pushing the note board his way again.

/In his room I found a book on composers. It was sitting in the middle of this mess./

"The book..." Joshua said slowly, "was my gift to him."

Joshua saw Scully mouth the word "gift" a few times, as if that word meant something to her. She wiped the board and wrote, /Your family curse--it said something about the giving of gifts./

"We'd be bereft of gifts or of giving."

/Did you give Andy a gift?/

Joshua felt a shiver run through him. He looked down at the assortment of wrapped packages still tossed carelessly near the foot of the bar. "Yes. Some wine in Sonoma, right before..."

Scully held up her finger a moment for him to hold that thought. She wrote, /Did you tip the valet at the opera?/

"Yes..."

/And Harris, you gave him money?/

Joshua was beginning to understand the connection. "Yes, a few quarters. Sometimes I drop spare change on street people. I don't have change very often. I rarely buy anything...I charge it and Nanette pays the bills...My God, it's the money, isn't it? The gifts. The missing money Mulder believed my grandfather stole from his people. Is that what's causing this?"

/I think so./

"What do we do?"

/#1 Don't give me ANYTHING./

/#2 We find Mulder before he finds you./ 

*********************************

SF Field Office   
7:12 PM

Joshua sat in the evidence room staring at the clock. He was under FBI protection again while they waited for some sign or sound from Mulder. Scully had alerted all agents and SFPD officers in the area to contact her if he was spotted anywhere in the city.

Joshua watched the clock click to the next minute. It was nearing downbeat at Davies. In just 45 minutes, another violinist would be taking the stage in his place. By some twist of irony, his replacement was the same violinist Joshua had covered for last week in Berkeley. Joshua had never missed a concert before in his life. He ached to be on that stage. Deaf or not--the instinct to perform was overwhelming. He felt like an animal with his leg caught in a trap, struggling to get free. All his attempts to keep his misfortunes a secret from the public had now awarded him an entertainment section front-page story. "Violin Virtuoso Struck Deaf by Mysterious Illness," it read in bold black type for everyone to pity.

On the table in front of him lay the evidence bags containing the scraps of his case. All these random pieces of paper written in different hands, in different languages, had done little to save him. All it had done was seduce the one person who'd been most dedicated to understanding its mystery.

Joshua picked up a letter and held it in his hand. Angry words were scrawled across the dirty page. Someone they never even identified was speaking of hurt and damage brought upon them by his music. Sooner or later everyone who was close to him became corrupted, lost or dead. Joshua could see a wake of ruined lives washing out behind him year for year. Everything he dreamed of for himself as a child had come true--the violin, the money, the adoration and recognition. Over half the world had applauded for Joshua Segulyev, the little frozen boy brought into the light and cherished by a multitude of people he never took it into his heart to play for. The Thin Man's words spoke the truth--he only played for himself. It was no small wonder he was cursed by such a powerful destructive force. Greatness draws its fire from somewhere, leaving a rotting smoldering waste.

*You do not listen,* they'd said.

He'd been too late for his grandfather and Elise. He didn't listen to the tremble in their voices as they started to fade from existence, vanishing in their efforts to give themselves to an insatiable recipient. Mulder at least had the presence of a possessed mind to write it down when the violin no longer held the ability to deafen him.

"You'll need to know, my love," Joshua spoke in silence. "Whatever happens between us, I forgive you."

The door opened and Scully rushed in carrying a bullet-proof vest. She pointed to it and to Joshua as she hung it over the chair next to him.

Scully reached for the pen board and wrote quickly. /We don't have much time. Dillmont's spotted Mulder at Davies./

"Mulder would never harm me," Joshua said, eyeing the vest.

Scully looked concerned. /Mulder will attack you in a manner he's accustomed to. He'll be armed./

"I don't want to believe it," he said weakly.

/He has a strong mind, but he's also a very good shot. You need to be prepared./

"He's been influenced to come after you before. He told me. What did you do?"

/I had to think faster than him./

"That's fast, isn't it?"

/Very./

"What did you do to stop him?"

/I pulled the fire alarm./

Another agent came to the door, calling for her attention. Scully pointed to the vest and hurried out of the room, indicating that Joshua follow her as soon as possible.

Joshua sat in the chair and stared at the nylon-covered black armor. This curse was of his own making, a burden he needed to take ownership of before it crushed its next victim.

**********************************

Davies Symphony Hall Security Monitoring Room 7:42 PM

The security room was a swirling mess of FBI agents and Davies Hall security. Joshua stood in the center of their muddled confusion, tossed about like a lost twig of driftwood. Without sound, he could only guess at what they knew. Agent Dillmont was leaning over the seated surveillance tech, pointing at the monitors and arguing with Agent Scully. The security chief seemed to be having issues with her as well, taking more than one moment to point in Joshua's general direction. They were evidently questioning the sanity of allowing a walking bull's-eye inside the Hall's doors, especially since Mulder had slipped through their radar.

Eventually she broke away from the men and reached for Joshua's ever-present pen board. It had managed to take up residence under his arm where the abandoned Stradi once belonged.

/I believe Mulder doesn't realize you're not performing tonight./

Joshua shook his head. "How?"

/You finished the concerto last night. In "their" minds, you may still perform to spite them./

"You can't allow the concerto to be performed tonight," Joshua said, looking to the security chief.

/They know that. They're devising a plan to evacuate the hall./

Joshua felt some relief at knowing that and eased back from the main bustle. Scully had plans to use him as a lure--safely, she'd assured him. Joshua wasn't sure if he agreed with her plan. He wasn't here to follow her commands; he was here to find a solution. Joshua's eyes tracked to the surveillance screens, flipping between black and white live video shots of the Hall. Quite unexpectedly, he saw something that made all too much sense to him. A camera at the high interior of the performance hall showed the hanging plastic sound deflection shields, and more importantly, the microphones. Every performance this week had been set up for a recording by EMI. Tonight, mic five was swinging far too low and out of sync with the others.

Joshua felt his heart begin to race. He knew where Mulder was. He looked up at the mass of people around him. All he needed was a chance to get away.

****************

7:58 PM

Joshua ran down the third floor maintenance access hallway. He couldn't hear if anyone was following him, but he suspected Scully was not fooled by the sudden clang of the fire alarm. The ensuing panic was now set for automatic and Davies security had over two thousand people to assist in evacuation.

Joshua slid to a stop against the last door in the long hallway, shoving it open with his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the corridor's opposite door begin to open. She was harder to shake than he thought.

He tugged the door shut behind him, fighting the hydraulics, and was dismayed to find it wouldn't lock no matter how hard he pounded on the bar. He left it and took off for the long stairway ahead, the one that ran straight up into the rafters--a stairway he had climbed many times before. He charged up the steps in twos, reaching the gate as the air rushed in and out of his lungs. He forced himself to calm enough to manipulate the trick release on the lock that kept the gate solidly secured. He snapped it open with effort and passed briskly through, turning to slam the gate firmly behind him. Below, a shaft of hallway light broke over the distant base of the stairs.

Joshua climbed the remainder of the distance. He was at the sound room door now, but he had no way of knowing what activity lay inside. He took fate into his willing hands and jerked the door open, entering its dim interior.

He almost stepped on the head of the technician lying unconscious on the floor in front of him. The side of his forehead was bleeding from the tight blow of a pistol grip. The disabled man was handcuffed securely to the base of the control board, his arm extending upwards, twisted away from his fallen body. Ahead, Mulder stood with his back to Joshua, his gun aimed at the windows down toward the empty stage, oblivious to the chaos that reigned in the aisles and hallways beyond. His concentration was reserved for one target alone, and that target was standing behind him.

"Mulder..." Joshua called to him and the agent slowly turned around. His sharp green eyes gathered Joshua into their focus. Mulder's face was calm, but cold, intent. He raised his weapon slowly, taking a step forward. His lips moved tightly as he began to speak to no one who could hear.

"You know I can't hear you..." Joshua said, trembling, trying not to look into his eyes--the caged anger in them was terrible to see. Joshua didn't need to read lips to understand the words; he had read them in Mulder's own written hand. The agent came closer, holding his arm out straight. He stared down the sight of his gun at Joshua, aiming to kill, as all agents are trained to kill. *Deadly force is an unfortunate, but necessary option.*

Joshua held up his hand in a meager defense, unconsciously taking steps back until he staggered against the body on the floor behind him. He fell to a crouch, regaining his balance. Mulder's aim lowered accordingly.

"You were right, Mulder--all along you were right. You thought no one would believe you, not even me. I've been deaf for a very long time. It started with my grandfather...but it ends..." the words were hard on him and he choked them out, "...it ends with me." He came onto his knees, reaching up in supplication, reaching out for the gun with an opened hand like Mulder had reached for the Stradivarius, with reverence and fear.

"Mulder..." he pleaded, his fingertips just brushing the muzzle of the gun. "I won't curse the prince for freeing me."

The gun fired, a red and white flash. Joshua fell back hard against the sponge tile wall. A ringing sang in his ears accompanied by a crushing pain in his chest. He slid down the wall and slumped over on his back, crumpled over the body beneath him. He couldn't move; his eyes were burning as they began to lose focus. Mulder stood over him, the gun still in his hand, its muzzle exhaling smoke as the room grew colder and brighter and a head began to form, rising out of Mulder's shoulder, gray and ghastly. The Thin Man emerged, stepping out of the agent's body like it was made of water. Mulder gasped and his eyes flew wide once the specter broke free. The gun dropped from his hand as if it had burned him. He lunged forward toward Joshua, bending over him, shouting his name.

"Joshua...! No! God! No!"

*I can hear you...* Joshua thought and in one fluid move, stood up. He didn't understand how he was able to move past Mulder, who was on the floor scrambling for something.

"Joshua..."

It wasn't Mulder's voice now; the voice was coming from behind him as the room brightened even more and the carpeted floor began to whiten with snow. Trees materialized and a cold wind blew up from behind. Joshua was standing alone on a country winter road lined with conifers. The scattered tracks of horseshoes and carts carved in the white blanket were splattered with the red stain of blood. He could hear men's voices and the crunch of heavy boots, moving closer. Joshua turned behind him to look up the road. A mass of marching men were just clearing the crest of the hill. They were dressed in tan uniforms, a red star centered on each cap.

*The soldiers are coming,* he thought, and ran for the cover of the trees.

*************************************

Chapter Twenty: The Lost Kingdom

************************************* 

It was cold in the woods as Joshua ran deeper. He was in the country somewhere, hearing the wild birds rustling in the treetops. From the road he thought he had seen smoke rising from a man-made fire. He ran toward the smell of burning wood and manure until he came to a small hamlet of thatched-roof sod farmhouses with old-fashioned iron plows, scythes and wheelbarrows near their perimeter. At the edge of a clearing stood a small farm home, a fire burning from its chimney. From inside came the wails of an infant.

Joshua walked around the back of the house, looking for a door. At the back step sat a young girl, unnaturally thin, shivering in a felt coat much too large for her small frame. She was poking at the snow with the end of a tree branch. She heard him approach and lifted her sallow face to smile up at him.

"Hello," she said in a strange language Joshua knew he shouldn't be able to understand and yet he could.

"Hello, little one," he answered in the same tongue. "Why are you out in the cold?"

"We can't go inside," she said as the infant continued to cry. "The baby just came."

"What baby?"

"You want to see?" she asked, getting up. Joshua followed her to the side of the home where they could peek through the crumbling sod brickwork. A large fire was burning from a stove inside. There was a cot against the far wall. A woman and a man stood over it, drawing a blanket over the face of someone who lay limp on the bloodied straw mattress. There were two older children in the room, a girl and a boy. The girl was holding the newborn. All of them were thin and drawn; they moved slowly.

"Who are they?" Joshua asked the girl, who was standing on tip-toe next to him.

"My mama and Auntie and cousin Joseph and Tatiana and a friend of Uncle's."

Joshua watched as Tatiana handed the baby over to the young man--the 'friend.' He looked stunned and sorrowful. Joshua couldn't hear all that they were saying over the child, but the woman was motioning the man to leave, quickly. In another moment he did, shoving his shoulder against the back door. He exited and started off across the clearing.

"Where's he taking the child?" he asked the girl.

She looked up at him, sad. "Mama told him to take the child and leave it in the snow."

"Why?!"

"So it wouldn't cry for milk."

"Why isn't there any milk?"

"The soldiers don't want us to have any. They took away all the goats. Mama says they sl..slaughtered them." She smiled, proud at the new word she'd learned.

Joshua looked toward the clearing. The man had almost made it into the trees beyond. Joshua ran after him. He wasn't going to let him kill the child.

###

"Wait! Stop!"

Joshua cried out to the shuffling form ahead of him. Although the man had a generous headstart, it wasn't difficult to catch him. Joshua slowed when he was a few paces behind him. The child was quiet now as the young man approached an abandoned storage hut in the woods and sat down heavily on the front stoop.

Joshua came and stood in front of him. "Listen. I don't know who you are, but you don't have to harm this child. I can help..."

The young man didn't acknowledge him. He sat with the baby in his arms, wrapped in a brightly colored jumpsuit, his little finger to its eagerly sucking mouth. He was beginning to weep. Joshua reached out to him.

"He can't see you," the little girl said, running toward them. Joshua stilled his hand just shy of the man's shoulder.

"Why not?" he questioned, although it did appear to be true. "You can see me," he reasoned.

She ran up beside him, panting. "That's because...you saved me."

Joshua stared at her, confused.

"Don't worry about the baby. He won't hurt her."

Joshua looked down with pity at the young man, wracked with misery. "How do you know?"

"He was in love with Auntie. I saw them kissing after Uncle was sent away."

The little girl took his hand, leading Joshua away from the young man, back into the woods.

"I don't understand...you say I saved you?"

The little girl raised her arms so Joshua would pick her up. He did and the lithe thing wrapped her thin arms and legs about him, pressing her small face to his cheek. "I told you, my darling," she said in his ear. "When you played for me, you saved me."

**********************

"Grandpapa!" Joshua yelled into the white powdered sky. Snow was falling from the late afternoon sky, muffling the carriage of his voice. The girl wasn't with him anymore--he was alone and desperately trying to find his way back to the deserted hut.

He wandered for what seemed like hours until he heard a noise not far off in the snow. He followed it and came upon a narrow path. A man was on it, up ahead, hauling a wheelbarrow with a few blankets in it and what looked like a metal milk can.

Joshua followed him until they reached the familiar hut. He watched the man lift and carry the blankets and can inside. He left the door slightly ajar, and Joshua slipped through it entering the small space. The inside was lit by dull sunlight seeping through seams in the wooden walls. He saw the man reach down into a lidless chest and lift the little baby girl up into his arms, bouncing her on his hip. She began to cry and he set her back down while he filled a small bottle with a yellowish-toned milk. He sat on the floor cross-legged, gathering her into his lap as he fed her. She cooed and sucked heartily on the thick nipple.

Joshua moved into their private space, sitting on the rough wood floor just across from him. He listened to him speak to the baby in a voice he hadn't heard in over two long years.

"Drink up, little one. We have a long journey to take today. I have found the rest of the money Ivan collected for us. It will buy us a way to Poland. The soldiers believe me. They think I am him. They think I am the son of a Red Army Civil War hero. I think I will need to keep this beard longer than the winter."

The baby reached out with her stubby fingers for the short growth of dark hair that already clung to the young man's chin. He was almost a child himself, not much older than Joshua was when he left for tour.

"I do not know if what I am doing is right, Mirriam. But I know your mama would be so happy to see you if she had lived." The young man's voice caught at the mention of her, Anna Segulyev, wife of Ivan Segulyev, who would return from a Siberian prison one day soon to find his family gone and his marriage betrayed. This was were it all began, with a heart-broken young man who would do anything to keep the one thing in life that truly belonged to him.

Joshua sat still and watched his grandfather tenderly feeding his infant mother. He didn't care that he couldn't touch or speak to him. It meant everything for him just to see him again, alone and unguarded. Joshua knew there wasn't anything he couldn't forgive him for. All the love he had for Anna and their child--to take the lives of an entire village into his hands to save her, only to have her become lost to him with her eventual marriage to Joshua's father, to the cold hands of a stranger--this was his curse.

Grandpapa moved the nipple from the baby's smiling mouth and she gurgled up at him. How Joshua longed to have been the owner of that smile--to know such caring from his very first days. He would have known a childhood without dreams of ice and snow and twisted hands. He would have known the soft caress of this man's beard the first year it began to grow. He knew he didn't belong here, this all happened long ago, but he wouldn't leave this room, not now, not for anything.

"Why didn't you tell me, Grandpapa?" Joshua lamented, speaking to himself as he watched his guardian bend to kiss the baby's soft head. "Why didn't you tell me you were ill? I would have cared for you. I wanted to take care of you. I wanted to thank you, but you didn't let me."

A ringing hit Joshua's ears and he winced, covering them, feeling a crushing pain in his chest. Beyond the ringing were voices, echoing and distant. He thought he should know them, understand them. He slumped to the cold floor, twisting in pain. He wasn't going to leave. Not this time. He wasn't... 

"Give us some room. Let us in."

"We have a shooting."

"Victim looks to be approximately 30 years of age."

"Can you cut this off him?"

"Step back, please."

"Is he breathing?"

"Where's the weapon?"

"What the hell is he doing here?"

"Sir, will you step back?"

"Is he? Is he wearing a vest?"

"Cuff him. Get him outta here."

"Wait. Not yet. I'll hold him."

"I need to see..."

  "Someone, please. Can you tell me? Is he wearing a vest?" 

*************************

Joshua was lying on a cot on a hard, stiff mattress. He could smell something awful burning; a fetid steam was floating into the low room. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, throwing a filthy blanket off of him.

The girl was back, standing in the doorway. She had a small blackbird at the end of a long string tied to her wrist. The bird kept trying to take flight, leaping into the air to fight at the end of the restraint. It chirped and fluttered back to the floor, heaving.

"What happened to you?" Joshua asked, sickened by the girl's emaciated limbs and sunken face. She had looked thin before, but was now a mass of matted hair and pale bones. Her clothes were worn and there were open sores on her legs.

"You need to wake up. You're supposed to be with us."

"Where?"

"Come," she said, and began to walk from the room. The bird flew to the end of the string, shadowing her stiff frame as she shuffled down the hall.

Joshua followed. In the next room saw what he had smelled. On a stove was a large pot, bubbling the last remnants of a hastily eaten meal. On the floor were stripped branches, chewed leaves, and the rotting corpse of a cat, riddled with larvae. Its fur and tail were the only parts that didn't make it into the pot.

He looked away, covering his nose, and hurried with her out the open back door. Winter had faded and spring was upon this once frozen land. Ahead, the clearing was now covered in fresh grasses and wildflowers. He followed her across the grass and into the woods at the other side, to the deserted end of the village. He could smell a fire burning as dusk began to fall. The girl was leading him toward a large granary shed, a barn.

The girl stopped at the tall sliding door and indicated he go in. Joshua looked through the narrow opening. He could see the red lick of flames reflecting within. "I don't want to go in there," he said, standing still.

"Ivan is waiting. You must go in. He'll be angry if you don't."

"What's in there?"

"Salvation," the girl replied, taking his hand in her cold skeletonized fingers. The bird gave up the fight and came to light on her shoulder as they entered together.

###

Joshua stood quietly in the barn's dark interior watching the assemblage entering through the slit in the opened door. The arrivals were mostly famine-ravaged women, barely alive, moving slowly. There were very few men and only one child who was now approaching the body that lay in final repose atop a wood and straw-leaden pyre built onto the low empty storage loft. Some people had been carried here, others wheeled in on carts. Some lay on the floor unmoving; a few he was certain were dead.

He waited with them, listening to their mumbled chants, not understanding why he needed to be here. He kept his eye on the door. A slim shaft of fading twilight was still penetrating the dark barn, lit deep red by a fire burning in a pit next to the funeral bed.

The girl untied the bird from her wrist and re-anchored it to the foot of the pyre. She said a few words Joshua couldn't hear which the assembly repeated in weak, dull voices. She reached down with a white bone hand and lifted a burning branch from the fire, holding it to the straw.

The pyre was alight and the girl stepped away.

The flame flicked over the shrouded body in a whipping blanket of orange, yellow and red swirls, quickly growing hot and fierce. A wave of flame leapt from the pyre to the floor below, lighting a collapsed bale of hay. The rotting straw combusted, blowing flickers of hot sparks across the floor to the dry, cracked wood of the structure. A long support beam lit and flame licked up its length to the ceiling.

"Hey!" Joshua yelled, although no one could hear him over the sudden roar of the growing fire, which was now spreading across the roof beams. He looked to the gaunt faces around him. They took no notice of the danger. Their sunken eyes regarded the flickering wisps with indifference. A few stepped forward, toward the flames, stepping into them, letting their tattered clothes catch fire and begin to consume them. The human torches slumped to the floor one by one as they burned. There was no weeping or screams.

This wasn't right, Joshua thought, feeling panic welling in him. They had all come here to die, but *he* wasn't supposed to end here. He ran for the door to find it slid shut and locked with chain. He pounded on it, struggling against the rising cloud of choking smoke and heat. This had to be a dream, a nightmare from his childhood, exchanging ice for fire. He pounded on the door with his hands. His Grandpapa would be coming soon to let him free, to take him away from this.

"Grandpapa!" he cried, slamming his shoulder into the door. It groaned, but wouldn't budge. No one would be coming to save him this time. He coughed as the smoke seared his lungs and sweat ran down his neck. His grandfather was in Poland by now, bribing his way to America. He was left behind. They'd all been left behind.

Instinctively, Joshua turned away from the barred door and ran through the smoke and burning bodies to the back of the structure. The girl was there on the ground, crawling through a broken board near the far corner. She was almost through.

"Nana!" Joshua cried out, falling to his hands and knees to crawl after her. She turned to him once she'd freed herself of the barn. He pushed his head and right arm through. He could see the woods beyond fading into darkness, but he couldn't get out this time. He was too big.

"Nana! Don't leave me in here! Help me!"

The girl got to her unsteady feet and backed slowly away. "I can't help you. I'm the only one who survives," she said sorrowfully, and walked away into the gloom, dragging the corpse of the dead bird on its string behind her.

"Nana!"

Behind him, Joshua heard the roof of the barn crack, beginning to fall in upon itself. He pulled his head back in, scraping his shoulder against the ragged wood. He sat on the dirty floor holding his shirt sleeve over his nose, trying to block the nauseating stench of burning human hair and flesh, witnessing the incarnation of death before him. Bodies were still falling to the floor, one over the other, engulfed in flame, their white eyes melting in the unforgiving heat. Joshua looked to the origin of the inferno and saw a familiar form taking shape. The Thin Man rose from his corpse on the pyre and sat up, immune to the destruction he had created. He stepped down, cutting through the laps of red and orange. He neared the first body, dead on the floor, its hair still alight. He reached out to it with a bony hand. The woman's spirit lifted and took his hand, stepping into his body. He reached for another and it did the same, becoming absorbed by him. He collected their souls one by one, gathering up the dead as their emaciated bodies peeled and flickered and crumbled into black charred bones.

When the dead had all gone into him, the Thin Man began to walk toward Joshua, who was huddled against the only wall of the barn yet to catch fire. Joshua's eyes were burning with smoke and his lungs were begging for relief. The fire was moving closer as was the Thin Man's hand, reaching for him.

"I'm not dead yet," Joshua choked, refusing to accept his invitation.

The walking corpse heard him and stilled. "You foolish boy. Your death was never my design."

"You killed them," Joshua said with anger to the haunting spirit, addressing him as if he were addressing the living. "You killed them all. You made them sacrifice themselves for your vengeance."

"Is this what you see?" the dead man leered. "Look again."

Joshua could still see in the glowing carnage the memory of watching those women and men walk knowingly into flame.

"You believe the fire is worse than the madness?"

"My grandfather had no hand in this. He was afraid for his child. He did not set out to destroy you."

The specter stepped closer, looming over Joshua. His voice, which Joshua could never identify, now resounded with the vocal patterns of nearly forty people. "You think this is about revenge. You think this is about spite--one man to another. You are wrong."

"Then what is it you want from me?"

"To remember where you came from," the Thin Man whispered, smiling that cracked-lipped smile of white teeth. "To remember what became of us." The roof above them broke with a loud crack and fell in. Joshua dove to the wall, covering his head as they were buried in splintering wood and smoke.

**********************

There was a crushing pain in his chest. Joshua was covered in debris, pinned to his back by smoldering ashen wood. He was alive, but trapped. His lungs were restricted; he could barely draw air. He lay in silence for hours, listening to the pop and hiss of the rubble as it cooled.

At one point he heard footsteps and raised his head to look through the tangle of boards. He could just barely make out the form of a girl, picking over the fallen mess with the end of a long stick. His head fell back, exhausted. He struggled to catch his breath and tried to lift his head again, shifting slightly. He saw her raise a rock over her head and throw it to the ground, cracking something underneath. He tried to cry out to her, but his lungs wouldn't fill. She reached down and picked something up. She held it up to the light of the pale moon. In silhouette he saw her walk away from the dying bonfire with a piece of human bone.

**********************

Time passed and Joshua idly wondered why he wouldn't die. His lungs screamed to him with each shallow breath. His arms and legs were pinned, immobile. His chest was crushed by a large beam. The pain and cold had reached a point of intensity where it no longer registered. He was tired and wanted to sleep.

"Tell me. Is he wearing a vest?"

"Yes. He is. It didn't go through."

"His ribs may be broken. Is he moving air?"

I'm here, Joshua thought. Come find me. They left me here to die.

"Take him away."

"Just a minute; he's coming around."

"Keep him back, ma'am."

Above him in the moonlight, Joshua could see the shadowed forms of men, rushing around over the debris, searching for him. One was calling his name.

"I'm here," he whispered. The man stopped and came over to where he was trapped, extending his hand, reaching for Joshua in the chaos of the fallen barn. Joshua struggled and slipped free his arm, reaching for the strong, elegant hand--designed both to kill and to save.

******************** 

Marina Flat   
1:33 PM   
Sunday (three days later)

The Bay breeze blew against the plastic covering over the open wall, rattling it like a flag. The view was translucent, distorted and strange. Joshua turned away from the fluttering window and back to the small trunk sitting open on the back of the piano. Slowly, he continued to place small items in it: books, picture frames, and other personal effects from his disarrayed and dismantled shelves. He breathed carefully; his chest was still incredibly sore from the bruised ribs that had stopped Mulder's bullet in a mitt of Kevlar. The rest of the ache he felt had nothing to do with his injuries.

He packed one newspaper-wrapped item at a time, trying to regain some momentum for his exodus from San Francisco tomorrow morning. He was already two days late starting his rehearsal week with the Pacific Symphony in Los Angeles.

The front bell rang.

"Come in!" Joshua called out, biting against the sharp pain the deep breath had cost him. *Must remember not to yell,* he told himself, carefully nestling a small black and white photo and duck within the rest of the objects in the trunk.

Agent Scully opened the door and slipped in, securing the bolt behind her. "You should keep this locked," she said, coming over to Joshua.

"Why? What could I possibly have to fear?"

Scully paused to look over his ravaged apartment as if seeing it for the first time; perhaps she was. "You're leaving tomorrow?" Scully asked, eyeing his mincing movements.

Joshua forced a little smile as he set an alarm clock in the trunk. "It's not much worse than the stabbing. I'm used to rehearsing with a handicap nowadays."

"But, your condition, I thought..."

"Pacific Symphony ticket sales have doubled since the latest chapter in my sordid life hit the LA Times. They've added an extra night. Everyone wants to come see the 'cursed' violinist."

Scully stopped a few feet shy of the piano. She seemed like a lost bird caught in the center of his wind-blown home. She looked like she didn't know where to stand.

"Did Mulder send you?" he asked, hopeful.

"No, Joshua. I've come on my own behalf. I just...wanted to see if I could talk to you."

Joshua stopped his idle packing when he heard the gravity in her voice. He gave her his full attention. "I'm sorry," he said, moving away from the trunk to clear a pile of shirts and hangers from his couch. "Please sit down."

She took a seat at the edge of the cushions, clasping her hands in her lap. Joshua took the chair opposite her. "What is it? Is Mulder all right?"

She nodded. "Yes, he's fine. Well, not completely fine--he's still in custody, but otherwise on the mend."

"I've been worried. They won't let me speak to him," Joshua said dejectedly.

"That's why I'm here. To tell you I've been in touch with Washington. I've secured authority to have him released within the hour. And also..." she took a moment to find her next words, "...to apologize to you."

"Apologize? Why?"

"I made a mistake. I'm hoping that I can set things right again."

"What mistake?" Joshua asked quietly. Scully might have been a slight woman in stature, but her resolve was something any man would be plainly foolish to stand in the way of. He couldn't imagine what it was she'd felt she'd done wrong.

"I misjudged you, Joshua. And what's worse...I misjudged Mulder. My misjudgment has led the both of you to this and I'm here with the hope that I can correct it."

"Scully, I don't know what it is you think you've done, but Mulder and I...we made our own mistakes. I just want him to know before I leave...I want him to know that I forgive him."

"He knows that, Joshua. What he can't do is forgive himself...I've never seen him like this. He blames himself--for me, for you, for everything."

"I wish he'd let me reassure him."

"You've been a good friend," she said steadily, although there was a tremor to her upper lip. She licked it still and continued. "A better friend than I've been recently. I thought I was protecting him, but now I see I've protected him too much. I keep him safe from everything, even happiness. He cares for you, Joshua. And I tried to keep that from him."

"I don't understand."

"I led him to distrust his own instincts about you. I look too hard at the facts; I miss the truth. Mulder isn't an easy man to love, but I failed to realize that it's far from impossible."

Joshua now understood what she was apologizing for. She was sorry for planting the seed of doubt about him in Mulder. She didn't realize that he was guilty of the exact same crime.

"I gave you no reason to trust me, Scully. You did the right thing. You were looking out for him. I would have done the same."

She met his words with a slight smile. "Thank you, Joshua," she said, letting her tension recede. It seemed she had come here to be forgiven, by him of all people.

"You're welcome," he answered.

She looked off again, her fingers tapping nervously in her lap. "Can I ask you something?" she said, earnestly.

"Sure."

"Has Mulder told you why we've stayed partners for so long?" She asked this as if she didn't know the answer herself. It both surprised and saddened Joshua that after all these years she didn't know.

"He doesn't tell me about you. He never let me in there."

She started to say something, but instead raised her fingers to catch the sudden tears that were forming in the corners of her eyes. "I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting that."

"Why?"

"Because, I've been afraid."

"What were you afraid of?"

She gave up and let the tears fall from her eyes, dropping in her lap. "Ever since I saw you standing together in your old bedroom...I was afraid I had lost him."

"You saw us?"

"No, Joshua, that's just the problem. I refused to see you--the two of you and what it might mean. I refused for days and when I got the photo, all I could think was that you must have *done* something to him. You must have been manipulating him because *no one* belongs to Mulder...no one..." she repeated quietly, looking down. "You've seen a side of him I've never known."

Joshua finally began to understand the nature of the sworn protective relationship these two had shared for so long. "Maybe I've seen him, Scully, but I understand enough about him to realize he doesn't belong to me. From that first night at dinner, I saw how you moved together as one person. I was foolish to think I could have a place in that."

Scully made an attempt to smile as she came to realize their common predicament. "We both love him, Joshua. The problem is, neither one of us knows what to do about it."

They caught each other's eyes for a long time--both of them offering a flag of surrender in a battle that was never fought. The battlefield had just slipped through their fingers.

*************************************

Marriott Hotel   
5:46 PM

Joshua stood outside Mulder's hotel room door, fingering the card key Scully had given him. Mulder had been released a little over two hours ago from Federal custody and returned to his room to rest. Joshua pressed his ear to the door. It was quiet on the other side. He knocked.

There was no answer.

Joshua took the card and slid it into the slot, waiting for the light to turn green and the door to unlatch. He opened it and went in.

Mulder was sitting in a chair facing the window. The curtains were only half-open and the sheer inner drapes were still sealed, only letting a diffusion of daylight in. His eyes were open, staring at nothing in the veiled view. Joshua closed the door slowly behind him and stepped in quietly as if someone were sleeping. Mulder's hair was still damp from the shower. He'd managed to slip into a pair of jeans and nothing more. His bare arms lay heavily on each armrest. Next to him on the table sat *The Lives of the Great Composers,* opened to the chapter of Beethoven.

Joshua stopped in front of Mulder's outstretched legs, waiting to see if he'd respond. Scully was right; he'd never seen a man sunk so low in self-loathing before. Mulder's stubbled face looked drawn and haggard; it appeared his 48 hours in Jarvis' slammer had been sleepless ones.

"That's a good story," Joshua said, nodding toward the book like he was starting up a conversation with a man in the park. "An inspiring tale of human tragedy and endurance. It would be my favorite bedtime story if it weren't true."

Mulder's head turned toward the book. He picked it up and brought it into his lap, closing it. He ran his hand over the leather cover once and held it out to Joshua. He wouldn't look at him. "Take it," he said in a scratchy whisper.

Joshua fought the sorrow he felt rising in his throat. "I won't take it back," he answered him. "It was freely given."

Mulder's fatigued arm shook and he brought the book back into his lap, clutching it in his hands. His face twisted in pain. "You shouldn't be here, Joshua. You shouldn't be anywhere near me."

"I don't fear you, Mulder. I never did."

Mulder lowered his head. "You should have."

"Mulder, look at me."

Mulder's head stayed low, his lips moving as if in prayer. If he wouldn't look up, then Joshua decided he would move down. He kneeled on the floor in front of him, next to the arm of the chair, finding his eyes.

"I refuse to fear you. The danger is gone now. Their message has been heard. I understand what they want from me and I plan to rectify it."

Mulder refused to reply, but his eyes couldn't help betray a flicker of curiosity as they stared at the floor.

"When I was out, I went back there, to Chutove. I saw many terrible and wonderful things. They showed me how they lived and how they died. They had been forgotten, and they wanted me to know, to see where I had come from. Unlike my grandfather and father, I am the first descendant in a position to draw public attention to an abominable tragedy the world has ignored. I intend to use that ability wisely. I've rescheduled my tour. The Vienna Philharmonic is thrilled I will be joining them in all their travels. I'm also sponsoring them to extend their tour to one more city.

"I'm going back there, Mulder, to my homeland. I'm hosting a benefit concert in Poltava Province. I'm very much looking forward to it, actually. I think my grandfather would be proud of me." He paused, searching Mulder's face. The man's mouth twitched at something approaching a smile. It looked as if he might be coming around a little.

"I gave my whole life credit to a man who took from so many people," Joshua continued. "They say it takes an entire village to raise a child...I suppose they're right. I needed to understand how I came to be, and they needed to understand who I was. I have a tremendous gift, but I've always kept it to myself. That was my sin--my vanity in thinking I had been the only one to earn it. You helped me see that. I asked you to find a key and you were that key...you were all along. It just took time to see," Joshua said with hopefulness. Mulder's beautiful, haunted eyes finally braved to look at him.

"I *shot* you, Joshua."

"You were being used."

"No...I was being used *effectively.* I was being pulled by my weaknesses and instincts. The things I said..." he broke off, swallowing hard. "I said things to you no one deserves to hear..."

"Those weren't your words."

Mulder raised his head, his teeth clenching together. "But they *were.* Those words were in-me," he said, accenting the last syllables with a rough poke at his own chest. "In-me. They found a place buried so deep in my subconscious I didn't even know it was there. Those words came out of me, Joshua. I'm deeply ashamed by them. I can't deny what I wrote or said."

"I don't think you should deny it," Joshua said, accepting his confession in stride. "I think we lose sight of the truth when we become deaf to what our conscience is trying to say. I refused to listen to the suggestion that my grandfather might not have always been the man I knew. That was my mistake. Maybe you should accept that voice inside you, understand it, forgive it, and move beyond. In the end they're just words, Mulder. Nothing more. They mean nothing to me."

Joshua set his hand on the top of Mulder's bare foot. When he didn't protest, he took a brave scoot forward, laying his head on the agent's knee. Joshua thought Mulder might push him away, but instead felt his hand come to rest on the back of his head.

"I miss you," Joshua whispered. "Come back to me."

He heard Mulder sigh and felt his fingers begin to move through his hair. "No, Joshua," he said heavily. "It wasn't meant to be. I should have been stronger. I should have remembered that anyone who has ever been close to me has been put in mortal danger. You asked me once why Scully and I had never made love. It's because we know if we lose sight of each other for even a moment, one of us will wind up dead. I can't live without her, and she...I can only hope she's made this choice for the same reasons. I've already asked Scully to make this sacrifice with me; I can't ask another. You have a life, Joshua. One that will be better once we've gone our separate ways."

Joshua raised his head to look up at his lover, to plead with him.

"You keep people alive..." he continued, his exhausted face expressing all the awe and respect he held for Joshua and his art. "...I destroy them. Sooner or later I destroy even the people who mean the most to me. I've already fired a gun at my own head to try and save her from me. I can only hope I'll remember to check if it's loaded next time."

"No, Mulder." Joshua shook his head, knowing the darkness that had always haunted Mulder found its counterweight in himself. "Don't say that to me and expect me to walk away. You have a place in this world, as obscure as it may seem to most. You were created for a reason. I've come to understand the sacrifice involved in bringing an exceptional person to be. You and I are the same man. We both make choices that keep us separated from the rest of the world. We found each other here--you can't tell me that wasn't meant to be."

"I don't have a choice, Joshua. This life chose me."

"We all make choices in how we live, Mulder. You can make a different choice--leave all this." He smiled and took his hand wistfully, holding it to his lips. "Come with me, overseas. I'll show you Vienna, Paris, Cairo, Moscow..."

"I've been to Russia," Mulder said with a small grin. "I didn't much care for it."

Joshua answered him with a silent laugh. "I knew you would refuse me. But I couldn't help asking all the same. It's a fantasy I can't seem to let go of."

Mulder gently fingered a swirl of dark hair over Joshua's ear. "It's nice to be asked."

Joshua moved up onto his knees to kiss Mulder, softly, just to the side of his mouth. He didn't get the same polite decline this time as he had on the ruins. Mulder's eyes were searching his; his mouth loosened, wanting, but he was afraid of what damage would be done. Tears came into his eyes. There was something Mulder needed to say and it pained him to hold it back.

"Tell me," Joshua said.

"I have to give you up...and it's killing me inside," he said bravely, his misery falling into a sorrowful grin. Joshua came up and took the man into his arms, holding him tightly, pressing his lips to his cheek, reaching for that comfort they had both been aching for these last several days. Mulder's arms were warm and strong around him; he felt the dampness from his eyes as Mulder lowered his face to his shoulder.

"Don't give me up...don't ever give me up," Joshua whispered to him as they rocked gently against one another in the pale light of the shaded window, at home on the lonely side of the glass.

###

Slowly, deliberately, Joshua stood and took Mulder into his arms--holding his complete focus on him, kissing his face, his eyes, his mouth, breathing with him, wanting to make him feel alive, loved, cherished and desired. This was the sexual nature of men Joshua had sought to show him. He led Mulder to the bed, undressing him, kissing him deeply, laying him down beneath him, patiently coaxing him back to the isolated serenity they had found together in Sonoma. As they kissed, Joshua could feel Mulder beginning to accept, reaching for him with his mouth and arms. Mulder's touches were hesitant, yet pleading--like the empty arms of a neglected child, trembling with the need to be held. All those human comforts Mulder had adapted himself to deny were here for him--it didn't matter what form the giver took.

Lying together unclothed, limbs entwined, allowing each other to touch openly and find healing, was all that occupied the four corners of the room as early evening traveled into night. A journey had been made--from fantasy to the awakening of a new passion, the power of physical touch made their bond stronger. It wasn't a sin that each perhaps still held a kernel of doubt. The crumbling foundation forbidding this union was forged in antiquity.

During the slow movements of their embrace, Joshua could hear Mulder whispering, a phrase over and over. He bent his head to catch it. "I can be gentle," he breathed, as his lips touched each tender bump of Joshua's ribs. "I can be gentle."

Joshua sighed when he entered his lover, holding his rough face to his own, asking him to open his eyes, kissing him softly, stroking his arm and chest and leg, reassuring him in any way he could that he was good; he was just. Mulder deserved to be touched; he deserved to be desired; he deserved to be forgiven; and he deserved to allow himself to love. Joshua's arms held on strong, weathering the powerful motions building between them; and although he remained quiet, Mulder allowed himself to succumb during those final releasing moments--his head falling back limp on the pillow, his face relaxing in peace. Joshua thought maybe there was a chance his message had been heard.

The intensity of pleasure is fleeting, even when it might never be had again. But Joshua found the real reward of their final coupling in the long, still embrace that followed. The battered witness gathered his protector into his arms and held him close against his chest, willing him to sleep, stroking his fingers through his hair. They held each other, wrapped in blankets, and slept soundly without incident until dawn.

The hardest thing Joshua ever had to do in his life was to slip his arm out from under his lover's head and dress in the quiet of morning before the stars had failed. For once he was the one to leave Mulder asleep and alone in his bed, warmed by their passing. He kissed him softly on the cheek and opened the curtains so the soon-to-be-rising sun would wake him. He said good-bye silently as he slipped out into the hall to face the long lonely ride to Los Angeles. 

************************************************** 

Epilogue--four months later 

**************************************************

FBI Headquarters   
6:05 AM   
Monday

Mulder sat in his familiar chair behind his too-neat desk, staring at a small unopened package addressed to him. It was early on the morning of his first day back from suspended leave. Although Skinner had barked the term "ass in a sling" at him more than usual during the last four months, his shaky career path was reinstated (after extensive disciplinary review) thanks in a major part to the supportive first-hand accounts provided under oath by Scully and Lt. Jarvis regarding his conduct in San Francisco. Joshua's verbose written statement vouching for his character was an X-File in itself, now currently filed under 'transferable demon possession' somewhere in the bottomless drawers behind him. Mulder once again made FBI history in being the first agent "absolved" for shooting a protected witness in the chest at close range. Skinner hadn't said, but Mulder knew the AD was somewhat aware it had been a crime of misdirected passion.

Scully had spent these months holding down the fort, sneaking over to his apartment most evenings with notes and photographs of the latest paranormal case she herself was heading with a long-missed enthusiasm. For what it was worth, his affair had managed to bring them closer. It managed to reestablish the kind of bonding between two people that needed no clear definition to exist any more than his lingering memories of Joshua.

It had been difficult over these long empty days that he'd spent alone at home, or on long walks around DC, trying to sort through all the many things that had been said and done during his weeks in San Francisco. It was hard, that was all he knew--another loss to bear in a long line of losses Mulder had experienced throughout his life. Waking that last bright morning to a cold and empty bed smelling of his lover was more painful to him than he could have imagined. The loneliness he carried with him now eclipsed the shame of his crime. Mulder found himself avoiding elevators and hanging up whenever he was put on hold. This was the way it had to be.

Mulder reached into his coat pocket for the postcards he'd brought in with him and stood up to pin them to his wallboard one by one. The first had arrived a week after his return to DC. It came by way of Scully from its sudden appearance in his FBI office mail. It was a postcard of Sleeping Beauty's castle lit up at night sent the day of Joshua's Disneyland Hotel performance in LA. The violinist's message was short and friendly, discreet. It was an attempt to sustain contact that Joshua chose to continue week to week, sending him cards from places Mulder had never been to: Stockholm, Prague, Lisbon, Rome. Mulder hung them now on his wall. A growing collection of mini snapshots and foreign stamps, the postcards were his way of following Joshua's travels as he made his way over the world. The short lines sounded happy, but there was a sadness that had been emerging as time passed and the cards began to arrive less frequently than the first. Mulder had yet to send a reply.

Satisfied with his thumbtacked arrangement, Mulder sat down to open the parcel on his desk. It had been shipped a few days ago care of the Vienna Philharmonic, which was now winding its way into Russia. Inside was a letter and a flat object wrapped in bubble wrap. Mulder began with the letter. 

Mulder,

As I write this I am sitting at a small child's desk in the upstairs room of a farm house that has stood near the edge of the Poltava Valley for over a hundred years. Outside my window I can see the branches of the cherry trees beginning to bud across the orchard. It is not yet spring, and still very cold here on the steppes. I light a fire and pile as many blankets as they can spare on my bed at night to keep warm. Ukraine isn't like anyplace on earth I've ever seen. Her people are quiet and proud and ultimately generous and forgiving. I hadn't expected to be welcomed into their very homes, but I feel incredibly blessed to accept the invitations. The child who used to sleep in this room has grown and moved away, and his parents were seeking a new 'son' to adopt for the time being. I have learned many things here, such as the true definition of 'cold shower,' and how many different Ukrainian words there are to describe boiled potatoes. So far my hosts have not complained about the violin and I have not complained about the chickens who sleep clucking in the rafters overhead.

I have been here for nearly two weeks, overseeing the final progress of the grand opening of a makeshift concert hall near the Chutove village center. When my request was received four months ago (I cannot believe how much time has passed since I left the States!) the largest unused structure was selected--an old granary barn--and architects and structural engineers from Kiev assembled to conceive and build it. I wish you could see it--it has a steadfast and rustic charm like the farmers who still work the surrounding lands. The acoustics could be more ideal, but my money would only go so far. Scully might be amused to hear that I ended up auctioning several collectibles of mine including the once-seized Louis XIV harpsichord to a private collector in Morocco to finance this project--not to mention the cost of securing accommodations for 65 Philharmonic members (not all of them welcomed the idea of sleeping in drafty farm houses!). My accountant in New York has threatened to have done with me if I don't come to my senses soon. News of my efforts have gladly drawn stories to the world's papers, and donations to the Recovery Foundation of Poltava Province have been arriving by the thousands.

Tomorrow night I will play the Sibelius violin concerto for 600 Chutove villagers and their neighbors and friends. It is a sad and triumphant piece, filled with strife and longing. I chose it because it reminded me of what I know these people suffered and yet they are still here--thriving and independent. My interpretation comes from my experiences in San Francisco, the images I saw in my dreams, and my need to try and right that unforgivable wrong. But, just to cover my bases, I've boned-up on my Ukrainian-traditional Christmas Carols. All that robust fiddle-playing my grandfather used to joke about--he was closer to understanding his past than I imagined. The farmwife whose care I am under, Olga, has taught me the name of the lullaby I can now play accurately from memory. It is called "Blessed are They Who Protect the Sleep of the Innocent."

The Chutove concert is for my people, but I also feel it is for you. When I play the Adagio di molto I feel Sibelius is speaking about a passion long left behind. I play for them and I play for you, but I also play for myself--perhaps I always will. Perhaps it isn't a sin to let the violin bespeak the contents of my heart. Perhaps it is simple human honesty that marks a virtuoso. In case I am wrong, I have also scheduled the Tchaikovsky for the following night. The audience will love it--it is familiar to them, and although it means little to me, I understand now that I can make music beyond my own experience.

I have been hesitant to write you, to open my heart when I have received no words from you. I try to believe it is the difficulty in tracking my progress that keeps you silent. But logic intervenes and tells me you have your own reasons and I will need to learn to accept them. But not today. Today I am happy to be where I am at this small desk writing by lamplight and happy to be able to hear the sadness and yearning in the sound of my violin.

Nanette writes to me from France. She is enjoying her retirement, reacquainting herself with her own country. She is very happy for me and plans to come to my performance when we reach Paris. I miss her and know we will have a lot to talk about.

I feel I have traveled far, but gained little distance from San Francisco. Inside this box is my final gift to you. Take it--it was always meant to be yours.

\--J 

The bubble wrap contained a compact disc recording from EMI Classics-- "Mendelssohn/Bruch Violin Concerti." It was a compilation of both Joshua's Mendelssohn and an earlier 1998 recording he'd made of the Max Bruch Concerto. Mulder read the label on the back. 

Felix Mendelssohn, Violin Concerto in E Minor, Op. 64 I--Allegro molto appassionato/Cadenza/Presto II--Andante III--Allegretto non troppo/Allegro molto vivace

JOSHUA SEGULYEV, violin THE SAN FRANCISCO SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA MICHAEL TILSON THOMAS, conductor

(Cadenza mvt I : Joshua Segulyev)

Joshua's impromptu cadenza, his gift to him, was immortalized in 78 minutes of digital audio for all eternity. Mulder opened the case; a message was handwritten on the inner sleeve. 

"Once upon a time there were two princes. Each was given a magical map that led them on their own separate quest. They were both gone for years, so long, that when they returned triumphant there was no one left who could remember them and they had aged beyond recognition. It is on the ruined walls of that lost kingdom where we will meet again, my friend, and we will know one another by name." 

Mulder sat quietly for several long moments, staring at the message and at the silver disc. The CD player Scully had brought into the office was still sitting atop the desk.

*I think we lose sight of the truth when we become deaf to what our conscience is trying to say.*

He didn't need to make that same mistake, he decided. He popped the disc out of its case and slid it into the player. The Mendelssohn began and Mulder, listened. 

********************************* 

End (roll credits)

I do have extensive post-reading author's notes that I'll post to my site in a few days, discussing some of the ideas and inspirations behind Cadenza. Come visit if you get a chance and we'll chat.

http://www.geocities.com/hotsprings/8334/fic.html

Meanwhile, tell me how you feel at: 

 

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Cadenza's Music Notes  
Listening to Cadenza

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The writing of this fic has been conducted under the influence of the following masterworks of classical music. A classical oboist myself, I've had a life-long love affair with this music and the San Francisco Symphony and bringing it together with my first passion, writing, has made Cadenza a very special work of fiction for me. I've included the key movements of each piece that inspired certain scenes and were playing quite loudly on my stereo while I composed the scenes or daydreamed about character development, etc. So here we go in order of appearance in Cadenza.

1\. Brahms Concerto for Violin and Orchestra in D Minor (Itzhak Perlman, violin)

Joshua's "signature" piece. He played this concerto (there is a total of three movements) in Philadelphia the night the bombs were discovered. He also won a Grammy for his 1988 recording of the Concerto with the New York Philharmonic which earned him his three year world tour. Scully is playing the solo cadenza section when the story opens. He also plays a part of it for Mulder when he explains how he associated Brahms with his grandfather.

2\. Mendelssohn Violin Concerto in E minor (Christian Ferras, violin)

The Mendelssohn is the concerto Joshua's rehearsing with the San Francisco Symphony throughout the story. It's also my most favorite violin concertos, it shows off the instrument so very well.

Joshua's playing the third movement during the ruckus in his apartment and the softer second movement during Mulder and Scully's "day at Davies" make-shift office scene where the photos go flying. He'll be playing the whole darn thing during the premiere gala. The violinist in this recording, Ferras, is my favorite virtuoso. I'd like to think this is Joshua himself playing on this recording and the following Bruch.

3\. Bruch Violin Concerto No. 1 in G Minor (Christian Ferras, violin)

The Bruch concerto is so filled with passion and suffering, struggle, and joy, I based most of Joshua's personality on this piece, especially the first movement. I listened to this while writing the frozen barn scene and Joshua's first encounter with the Thin Man and any time he remembers his past. The first movement is the story of his life. The second movement *might* be about love, but I'll let you decide. It also might contain something that sounds like a lullaby.

4\. Schubert String Quartet No. 14 "Death and the Maiden" II: Andanto con moto

A eulogy for Elise. Joshua plays the lead violin part in front of the window for the portion of the quartet's slow, quiet second movement I've included here. Is does sound less lonely with the cello and viola.

5\. Beethoven Symphony No. 9 in D Minor I: Allergro ma non troppo

Beethoven at his best, it is almost a sin to put only one movement of this greatest of symphonies on a tape, but hey, I don't have room for 78 minutes--that takes a whole CD. But you'd know that if you were paying attention during Mulder's first classical appreciation lesson. Listen, and remember Ludwig was completely deaf when he wrote this. If that isn't enough to make you feel insignificant, ask yourself why you don't own the complete symphonic works of Beethoven already in a five CD boxed set. Shame! Get the Karajan version, now!

6\. JS Bach Concerto for Violin and Oboe in C Minor II: Adagio (Issac Stern, violin)

This is the piece that takes Mulder by surprise in a Berkeley church. In Cadenza, I have Joshua playing alongside my favorite oboist in the whole darn world, William Bennet, SF Symphony principal oboist. I first heard him play at Davies when I was 15 years old. I was a clarinet player at the time. I changed to oboe that very day. Oboe is a beast of an instrument to tame--it's finicky and temperamental, but when it sings, it can cut into you like no other sound in the orchestra. I have a tempestuous love/hate relationship with my beloved Fox 400 grenadilla oboe. I've experienced the greatest personal highs (nailing the solo in the Tchaik 4 onstage at the Hoffman with the Diablo Valley Philharmonic) and personal lows (managing to cut my upper lip open and splitting my reed in half during rehearsal of Mozart's Marriage of Figaro Overture and missing the whole damn solo) with this baby.

But back to Bach, I play along with my tape to this piece quite a bit. It's beyond lovely. But get the C Minor version, it's just plain better--Mulder will agree with me.

7\. Beethoven, Concerto for Piano, Violin, Cello and Orchestra in C major. "Triple Concerto"

This concerto is a hoot! It's a splendid example of Beethoven's happier works. It's festive and requires the solo skills of three virtuosos. I thought it would be the perfect piece for Joshua and his "merry trio" to perform that blustery Christmas night in New York during an endless Beethoven festival. I've been to one of these at Davies. Don't get me wrong, I ADORE Beethoven, but my ass was numb by the time they finished the Sixth Symphony.

8\. Vivaldi Concerto in D for Guitar

I don't know where I got this weird little tape, I think someone left it at my house or something. It's one of those 99¢ things you see for sale in a big bargain barrels at drug stores. It is a collection of Vivaldi Concertos transcribed for various instruments. Some of its kinda weird, and the labeling is all wrong, but right in the middle of the second side is this guitar piece that is so...sexy...I decided that this is what you hear during the softer love scenes in Cadenza, off in the corner playing on Joshua's stereo. It's also the piece Mulder pops in the stereo while Joshua's restringing the Strad. It's a passion theme for them, cautious, yet leaden with meaning. Try it while reading the Sonoma section--goes well with wine.

9\. Mozart, Don Giovanni, Act II, Commendatore scene

This is right out of the Amadeus soundtrack. (The best film ever made IMO, but then I'm biased.) Those of you who have seen the film can relate to this powerful trio between Don Giovanni, the statue and his sniveling sidekick, Leporello just before the commendatore casts them down into hell. Mulder's rather confusing night at the opera watching over Joshua went well with the strong male voices in this aria. The whole opera is dark and angry and eerie. Don Giovanni is also theorized to embody Mozart's struggle to deal with his overbearing father's death. See a connection there?

Turn the volume up on this number while reading the section where Joshua follows the thin man through the musty backstage prop rooms of the War Memorial Opera House and tell me you don't get all creeped out.

10\. Rachmaninov, Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini (Philippe Entremont, piano) Easily my favorite piano piece ever, Sergei Rachmaninov almost made me cast Joshua as a pianist--just so I could listen to hours of Rach piano concertos. Well, I'm listening to them anyway! I think most true musicians can play a little piano. Joshua can play some of the easier variations in this piece. Rachmaninov took a theme by an Italian violinist and turned it into one of the greatest works of piano music ever written. I almost feel sorry for Paganini--even if he was long gone dead at the time this was composed in the 1930s. I also included this piece because it's so Russian and practically all the composers listed so far were German! Don't get me wrong, I adore Tchaikovsky, but his violin concerto just didn't say "Joshua" to me.

The Rhapsody is a music composition form known as "theme and variation." You take a simple theme and then rewrite it over and over in a series of musical variations. Listen to a first few minutes to get the basic tune and hear where Sergei takes it. You may recognize some of the variations just like a familiar line from Shakespeare you never knew was from Shakespeare--that's how well-known this piece is. Some of the chillier parts of this piece make me think of Joshua's Grandfather struggling to flee the Ukraine in the dead of winter with his infant daughter in his arms.

11\. Prokofiev, Symphonic Suite, Op. 60, "Lieutenant Kije" "Romance"--Second Movement

Joshua describes the "sound" of this piece best in these words of his grandfather: "It sounds like emptiness and wholeness--everything and nothing at all. I would listen to its grand pause--'tishena,' my grandfather called it. 'Listen, Sasha,' he would say to me when it was quiet. 'The sound of silence is the most beautiful chord of all.'"

Prokofiev's "Romance" is one of the most delicate, chilling and innocent pieces of music I've ever heard. Its theme is familiar, we've all heard it at some point, but can't quite place it. It begins with a sad, slow cello, straining through the notes along with the strum of the harp. I see Joshua waking before dawn and sneaking out the back of the barn with his dog to listen to the morning. Its child-like theme is so honest it will break your heart faster than any piece on this list. Tishena, is Russian for 'silence;' it also means 'peace.' As you read, you'll see how this theme carries through the story.

12\. Schumann, Sonata for Violin and Piano, Op. 121 (Christian Ferras, violin)

I'm not a huge Schumann fan, but this piece, which is part of the Christian Ferras Double CD along with his recordings of the Brahms, Beethoven and Sibelius concertos, is a stand-out piece for violin and piano. Joshua plays this piece at Zellerbach in Berkeley for Nana the first time she meets him (as recalled in chapter 11)with that "beautiful" young man who was to become is first lover later that night. The sonata has a technical accuracy and grace that I felt would be fitting of a young man coming into his stride as a virtuoso. The piano gets equal billing in this piece, symbolic of their final 'coming together.'

13\. Vivaldi, The Four Seasons Autumn--Adagio molto Summer--Allegro non molto Spring--Largo Winter--Allegro non molto, Largo & Allegro

Vivaldi's Four Seasons is probably *the* most well-known work for solo violin and chamber orchestra. It was also composed the year Joshua's Stradi was made, 1726. There is a performing group called Philharmonia Baroque that is formed from musicians playing on strictly historical instruments. I knew I wanted to tell a lot of flashback history for Joshua in chapter 12 and selections from the Four Seasons made for the perfect musical fit.

Autumn's adagio molto is filled with quiet tension, which I felt was perfect for the moments when the agents' car pulls up in front of Joshua's old home and he looks out the window at it, recalling how it looked when he was a teen.

Summer's Allegro non molto is the piece Joshua chooses to play for his grandfather to warm his heart in early November. It's vibrant and gleeful, and a wonderfully showy piece for the violin, flirtatious.

Spring's Largo has a lonely, isolated sound to it. I figured Joshua's little fingers would be healing by his first spring in Philadelphia with his grandfather. The sound of this movement was a perfect match to the struggle of a little boy trying to find his way back to his art with scarred hands.

Winter's final three movements are some of the most stunning repertoire in baroque literature. The violin solo really breaks free in these chilling final pieces and so does Joshua's state of mind upon receiving heartbreaking news (chapter 12). Thank you, Vivaldi, for the inspiration.

14\. ARIA: "Ebben? Ne andro lontano" from Catalani's opera 'La Wally' (Eva Marton, soprano)

My Italian sucks, so I have no idea what this aria means word for word, but it does say "Sonoma" to me. I knew I wanted an aria to go with my vineyard romance in chapter 14 and this one fit the bill. I wanted a female voice that could carry over fine wines and rolling hills. "Ebben? Ne andro lontano" is filled with passion and freedom and beauty, yet within the course of the aria one hears an eerie undertone that eventually takes over the happier melody, culminating in disaster. A perfect fit for the course of this chapter-- you can all but hear those starlings taking flight right up into the first fall of rain.

15\. J. S. Bach: Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin (various)

When Joshua hears the violin singing him to sleep, it comes to him as a solo work from Bach. Just about any of the hundreds of unaccompanied Bach violin recordings out there will do. If you visit the classical music section of most stores you'll find a wide variety of violin soloists of all ages performing alone, the very foundation of music theory, Bach sonatas and partitas.

16\. Brahms: Ein Deutsches Requiem ("A German Requiem")

Probably the most famous of Brahms' work, his soulful and powerful requiem is the musical inspiration I drew from for the final mystical sections of Joshua's journey. The first movement "Blessed are They," is what I heard when Joshua finds himself on the country road and enters the woods, meeting the little girl at the back of her ruined home. The horror of the fire is the roar of flame I heard sung from the male chorus in the second movement of this piece "Denn alles Fleisch, es ist wie Gras." I don't remember what that means in English [bad Sharon, no biscuit], but it's very creepy. I used those dark sections to color my thoughts during most of chapter 19 as well--"The caged anger in his eyes was terrible to see." Once again I found myself reaching to the Germans for themes to fit a Russian tragedy. Can I help it if Russian classical music is just too darn upbeat? Yeah, Stravinski would have probably worked, but I'm a sucker for the Romantics.

17\. Jean Sibelius: Concerto for Violin in D minor (op. 47) (Christian Ferras, violin)

A post-Romantic Finnish composer, Sibelius' exceptional 20th century work is among the most challenging and sublime works composed for violin. It is my favorite concerto so I saved it for last. If Cadenza has a main theme, the Sibelius is it. The work is haunting, strange, powerful, delicate and filled with strife, longing and love. When I first heard it, I thought I was seeing 1930s Chutove as well as a secluded rustic room overlooking the Napa Valley vineyards. Of all the pieces I listened to while writing this novel, the Sibelius brought me the most inspiration and its haunting voice opened up the world of Cadenza to me. You'll find a part of its meaning in almost every scene--but the second movement goes especially well with the last few scenes of chapter 20.

I would strongly urge any of you to try and find a few of these pieces, especially the Mendelssohn, Bruch and Sibelius violin concertos. Half of what made Cadenza work for my beta readers (they tell me) was having some, if not all, of the music. Classical bargain CDs can be found for $2 to $9 at most large bookstores and Tower Records. All of these pieces mentioned in this novel are very popular and easy to find. Some people have written to tell me they found some of these pieces at their library or even in MPEG form online. Give it a shot, you may discover a whole new art as Mulder did!

\--Terma99

 

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Cadenza by Terma99  
Author's Final Notes  
Warning: These notes contain vague spoilers for the plot of Cadenza.  
Cadenza can be found at: http://www.geocities.com/hotsprings/8334/fic.html

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Me: First, let me apologize for not getting these notes together when I first posted Cadenza last week. I had intended to post it along with the last batch, but a sudden illness knocked me flat for seven days and this is the first chance I've had to get to it. There were many people I wanted to thank and credit for helping with and influencing this fic novel.

Two Princes: For a very long time I've wanted to write a story about a classical musician, and the Mulder/other/slash genre seemed the perfect place for it. I started to envision Mulder's lover as a world-class soloist, someone who was never in one spot for very long, just like our Special Agent. At first I thought of a pianist....all that Rachmaninov...but then I decided there was something so innocently sexual about a man playing a violin--a delicate and powerful instrument. I had recently written a story on the Contra Costa Chamber Orchestra and attended their performance of the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto. I fell in love with the violinist on the stage that night and the memory of him carried over into the creation of my violinist (who is also a combination of Evgeny Kissin and this Russian tubist I knew in High School, and also, I'll admit to borrowing some essence of Johnny Depp.) Joshua is all and none of these people; he is his own person and has his own face, but if you're wondering, I used an image of Depp from Sleepy Hollow on my cover art for Cadenza.

Getting to know Joshua was an amazing experience. He first came to me as a very guarded young man who was a bit too used to the finer things in life. As we got to know one another I realized most of that was an act on his part to protect himself from strangers. As we spoke together he began to tell me about his childhood, his mother, his father and grandfather...and I knew I couldn't blame him for wanting to feel safe.

Amazingly, I broke from my usual pattern of writing all out of order and wrote most of Cadenza one chapter at a time, *in order* so Michelle (my whip master and editor) could get something new to read every two weeks or so and not lose any of the plot. I'm glad I forced myself to write this way because I think it helped me develop Joshua at a sensible pace and allow him to get to know Mulder gradually as well. I wanted this one to simmer.

Musical Influences: I've been delighted by all the emails I've received from musicians world-wide who have been drawn to this story during its WIP stage and now in its completed form. I never knew there were so many students, performers and lovers of classical music in this fandom. I've been deeply moved by their comments and expressions of appreciation and love for this music art form. And if nothing else, I'm so very pleased I've been able to stimulate curiosity and interest in classical music through this novel. Many have written me to tell me they got so excited about music they just bought their first symphony tickets, or went out and bought their first set of classical CDs, or pulled out their old recordings of Beethoven and Handel that they hadn't listened to since they were children. I thank everyone who has written to me for giving the classics a second chance.

I'd also like to thank all my friends and fellow musicians who helped me research this story. In particular, I'd like to thank my immensely musically gifted brother, Steven, whose piano virtuosity, composition genius (music theory and history), instrumental knowledge (violin, piano) and years and years of dedicated conservatory and private music study has inspired much of Joshua's life and career. I also thank his lovely fiance Masha, a Russian piano virtuoso in her own right, for the Russian translations and history. Thanks to my high school buddy, Robert, bassoonist extraordinaire, for his knowledge of professional "gigs" and first hand experience performing with most professional and semi-professional orchestras in the Bay Area, and also for all the bad musician jokes he told me while we played together in the Jesus Christ Superstar pit orchestra.

As for my own love of music--I began on the clarinet at age nine, switched to oboe at age 16 and have been an active classical performer ever since with community and semi-professional orchestras, bands, and chamber groups. In addition to oboe, my chief instrument, I also play the cello, flute and violin. I studied music history, performance and a little theory in college winding up a few units shy of a music minor. Over the last year I have had the amazing opportunity to write for the performing arts (classical music, theatre and dance) for various magazines, newspapers and programs in the SF Bay Area--a job that happily gets me two free tickets to everything. My cumulative experiences as a listener and performer strongly influenced the music performances in Cadenza, right down to the backstage mulled wine and flashing reindeer antlers.

Truth: Some aspects of Cadenza are fictionalized. Joshua's schooling is based on my brother's experiences as a San Francisco Conservatory student and his vast knowledge of music composition, conducting and performance. The Philadelphia Conservatory of Music and its professors and program are fiction. Joshua's touring habits are also fictionalized as most soloists represent themselves and usually don't play more than one or two concerts a year with any given orchestra. I needed him to be in SF for a longer-than-usual period of time for the casefile, so I stretched it. Joshua's personal life and habits are fictional, but based on real life soloists I have performed with, grown up with, and interviewed.

I borrowed and scrambled various popular Russian fairytales for the fable of the questing prince--all of which I read about in a book illustrating the Tales of Baba Yaga. The 10,000 year old man is called Kashkay? The Deathless. I'm forgetting the spelling, but his chained image stuck with me when I created the Thin Man. The Lives of the Great Composers is a real book, with Brahms on the cover, but I changed its author and contents to fit Cadenza. I loved that book, especially the story of Beethoven, but someone borrowed it and never returned it to me.

The locations described in San Francisco and Napa and Sonoma are real. However, some of the winery names are changed to sound more interesting. The palace built into the grassy hill does exist, but it's called Claire-something vineyard. Not a very flashy name. It sits above the surrounding Sonoma hills and it truly breathtaking. Auberge du Soleil is a resort in Napa; it's about a lush as resorts get in California.

Most of the professional musicians mentioned in Cadenza are real people who I have had the joy of listening to live. William Bennet *is* my favorite oboist; I was happy to include him on the Bach. Nigel Kennedy did recently bring back the art of the improvisational cadenza, and you really haven't seen someone conduct a symphony orchestra until you've witnessed San Francisco's phenomenal Michael Tilson Thomas (MTT).

Erotic Influences: Since I'm sadly not a man, I had to look for outside influences and information to gain a hopefully somewhat accurate understanding of sexuality between men. Thankfully, I work in San Francisco and was strongly influenced by SF homoerotic art and literature and yes, even a little porn...okay a lot of porn . Among the books I read, The Hite Report on Male Sexuality was VERY informative and candid and I'd recommend it to anyone wanting to understand the sexual male better.

I was the most inspired by San Francisco's American Conservatory Theatre's (A.C.T.) homoerotic production of Marlowe's Edward II, directed by the brilliant Mark Lamos. This play didn't leave much to the imagination (graphic sex, nudity and violence between men) and I was completely bowled over by the amazing performance of Malcom Gets in the title role of the ineffectual, yet sincere king who lost his rule and died a horrific medieval death (red hot poker up the ass) all for the love of another man. I tried to drag anyone who would listen to go see this daring production and despite a PR nightmare for A.C.T., the play was an enormous success. I would like to thank the cast and crew and producers of this play for their genius and uncompromising vision. It was something to see.

The Terror-Famine: A few weeks before I began to think about writing Cadenza I came upon a book at Barnes and Noble, Our Century. I was flipping through the pages, 1930-40, and as I expected saw those horrific pictures of piles of bone-thin bodies in mass graves. I assumed I was looking at concentration camp photos. I wasn't. I was looking at photos of Stalin's attempt to eliminate the Ukrainian/Peasant population in an effort to enforce collectivization. I read about the man-made famine and the incredible death toll, nine million, and the subsequent Soviet cover-up and wondered, "Why the heck have I never even heard of this?" Maybe it's because I didn't get much of a chance to study world history in college (history was in the same core as my major--English--so I had to take statistics and chemistry instead, blech) but those haunting images stayed with me. I looked up websites on Ukraine and the famine and found a wealth of information. At the library I found a book written in the '80s, *Soviet Collectivization and the Terror-Famine*, by Robert Conquest covering the Revolution years and politics leading up to the 1933-34 famine. It wasn't the most pleasant book to read, my stomach lurched at most of the details, particularly the fate of the children, but it gave me a clear picture of how people lived and died during those terrible years. Famine references and depictions in Cadenza are taken directly from this information--with the exception of the last scene in the barn. Pagan practices were common among peasants back then, but the scene I describe and the workings of the spell are fiction.

In Honor of Cathleen Faye: Cadenza would have never happened if it weren't for a certain powerful, cutting edge, one-of-a-kind, groundbreaking fic novel that hit the lists about a year ago. Wind River by the remarkable Cathleen Faye hit me harder than any work of fanfiction ever has before or since. Wind River is a Mulder/Other romance that literally opened the door to slash for me. I'd never read fic before in this category. I took a look at Wind River after being pestered for weeks and weeks by my friend Michelle who was just as affected by it. I opened it up and was immediately swept away. When I finished it I realized my entire understanding of human erotic experience had been greatly expanded. I wrote her one of the longest feedback messages of my life (a few of them in fact) praising her to the highest and groveling at her feet. I believe I even told her she owned my soul. I told her I never thought I could write anything close to this type of love story between two men, but she encouraged me and gave me some tips and sooner or later I began to imagine my own M/O romance. I was, and still am, heavily influenced by this remarkable story. If you haven't had the chance to read it, please do so. I can't recommend it enough.

The Giving of Gifts: Cadenza is a gift, a labor of seven months of love and a unique chance to develop a new character and work with a 20 chapter plot. I learned a tremendous lot from it and don't regret a minute spent alone ignoring the rest of my life (husband, job, friends) in order to write it. A writer writes, and I'm completely addicted to it. I hope you will be as addicted to reading it. And yes, it's completely okay to hate it, too.

-Terma99 

  
Archived: 13:00 03/14/01 


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